


Midwinter

by ackermom



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 104th Training Corps Shenanigans, Alcohol, Angst, Bertolt-centric, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26960575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: In the deep midwinter, the villagers of Wall Rose gather to celebrate the new year with song, dance, and theatre. The Solstice Stage Festival is a light in the dark for many, and this year, the trainees of the 104th Cadet Corps will take part as a lesson on community relations.For some, the stage offers the spotlight they've always wanted. For others, it's just another way to hide.
Relationships: Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover
Comments: 133
Kudos: 162





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you have to write the things you want to read.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After nearly three years, Bertholdt thinks he could run this trail blindfolded.

Down the trail, they run. Two dozen cadets carry on in pairs, only a shoulder's width apart. There is just enough room for two soldiers to run side by side on this track of the trail, where it emerges from the forest and winds the long way round the top of the cliff. In the summertime, one can see straight across; their eyes would follow the weaving path of the trail down a steady slope, through the green fields, across the open country, and to the bustling village on the other side. In midwinter, the view is lost. The snow-covered roofs of the village can be seen far off, but to the average man, the wide expanse between is a swathe of white snow to be lost in. To the cadets, the winding round on the edge of the cliff is their morning routine. After nearly three years, Bertholdt thinks he could run it blindfolded. 

The cadets' black boots plod in the snow. Their toes kick up clouds of white dust as they run, and their pace sends sheets of fresh snowfall over the side of the cliff. From this height, falling off the trail wouldn't be fatal; but not even a thick blanket of snow could ensure it wouldn't hurt.

They run in an unsteady rhythm, two by two along the trail. Their feet never quite hit the ground at the same time; not like a march, but rather like a spray of bullets, one on top of the other in endless disharmony. Like a firing squad. It's a rhythm that their drill sergeant would dismiss as more or less passable, given the weather conditions and the early hour of the day. But to Bertholdt, there's nothing acceptable about it.

He would start with the head of the pack. From where he runs in the rear, he can see Thomas' head bobbing in the front. He's an unsteady beacon trying to guide the rest of them. He sets a restless rhythm for their feet, always glancing down to make sure he knows where he's going. He should be able to tell without looking. He should just know. He belongs somewhere in the middle, next to a partner who can measure his pace. Bertholdt would replace him with someone who carries themselves solidly. In terms of sheer endurance, Sasha could outrun almost anyone else; but she moves too erratically to lead, and her pace would leave the pack tired too soon. Connie struggles to keep a count in his head. He would get them lost. Mikasa could lead well, if she knew where her friends were in the pack. Annie could do it without ever looking back.

The rhythm beside him drops suddenly. Bertholdt almost loses the count in his head, but Reiner falls back in line within seconds. From the corner of his eye, Bertholdt can see a fistful of icy snow being packed in his hands.

"You're not going to throw that," Bertholdt says. His breath puffs into a white cloud. He looks ahead. "Shadis isn't that far behind."

"Far enough," Reiner shoots back. 

Bertholdt glances sideways at him. His bare hands are turning red as he pats the snow into a ball. He slaps it together in time with the planting of their boots on the ground, a perfect match. Two by two. Reiner breaks into a grin when he catches Bertholdt watching his plan unfold, and Bertholdt turns his gaze forward again.

"This one's on you," he says.

"Don't worry," Reiner reassures him. "I'm not going to throw it at anyone."

True to his word, Reiner forgoes the sniper in favor of a rear assault. An unexpected attack from an angle of vulnerability, Bertholdt notes, although to be fair, he doesn't think any of their fellow cadets knew they were going to be engaged in warfare on their routine morning run. That sours the choice even more. It's an unconventional approach no matter the situation, but for Reiner, it happens to work. He jogs ahead of Bertholdt until he is just behind the next pair of cadets, who don't seem to hear his approaching footsteps on the soft snow. Then without another word, he yanks on the collar of Connie's green sweater and releases the snowball down his back. 

Connie howls. His boots fumble in the snow, and he spins out as he slaps himself on the back; no doubt it's an attempt to remove the snowball, but it only serves to smash the ice against his skin, and he yells even louder, his eyes growing wide when Reiner slips past him, falls back into his place beside Bertholdt, and leaves him in the dust.

"You!" Connie shouts from behind them. "Hey, get back here!"

Reiner is laughing too hard to respond. He presses on, but his footfall wobbles, first careening into Bertholdt, and then too close to the edge of the cliff, nearly sending him sailing into the trees below. 

"Careful," Bertholdt alarms when he sees Reiner's toes near the edge.

"You be careful," Reiner exclaims. He gives Bertholdt a playful shove on his shoulder that sends him skidding off the trail. "C'mon, pull that stick out of your ass and laugh. That was funny."

Bertholdt resumes his place on the trail and keeps his eyes forward. The line in front of them is now down to one, as Connie sprints to catch up; but he won't be able to rejoin his place now that he's blocked by their line. He would've been run down a moment ago if Bertholdt had not been prepared to leap past him in order to overtake him. Then it would've been all three of them scrambling to keep their footing on the trail. Reiner has lost this round, he thinks. Surprise was his only advantage, and he gave it up for a cheap win. He has left an empty spot ahead of them and a vengeful enemy behind them. A fatal blunder.

From the line ahead, Armin looks back. He's searching for his running partner. He must find Connie, glimpsing between Reiner and Bertholdt's arms, because the tension in his brow eases. As if a snowball down the back would've been enough to take him out. For some, it might've been. He's red in the face. They're not even halfway to town yet, and he breathes like he's been running for the last three years. Without Connie steadily pacing his footsteps, he'll have to fall back too.

He glances at Bertholdt before he turns forward again. Bertholdt stares straight ahead, but he can feel Armin look at him.

“Don’t run away from me,” Connie wheezes from their elbows. He’s gained on them, and now he’s right behind. “I’m going to get you for this.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, Connie,” Reiner chirps back. He’s smiling without looking over his shoulder. “But please, you can have that one for free. In fact, I won’t even count it! Consider it still your turn.”

“I hate you,” Connie growls. “You better learn to sleep with one eye open, Braun, because you’ve got no idea what’s coming for you.”

Bertholdt takes a deep breath.

Something thunders behind the pack. Before Connie can finish muttering his threats, the sound of horse hooves is upon them, and the entire squad picks up its pace. It starts at the very end with Connie, running so closely behind Reiner and Bertholdt that he steps on both of their heels as he swears. From there it floods forward, each pair in the pack moving faster, pressing on the line before them, until the entire group is running as if their lives depend on it. Under pressure, they move like one. Their boots strike the ground in a ceaseless sprint. They traverse the narrow bend of the cliffside trail, pounding through last night's snowfall as the horse rider closes in.

"Springer," comes a bark from atop the horse. Shadis yells, not just over the cadets, but the whole valley. His voice carries across the snow, and the pack moves even faster. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s not your position.”

“It’s not my fault, sir,” Connie shouts. “Cadet Braun shoved a snowball down my—“

“Do you think I give a damn, cadet? Fall in line!”

“But sir, I’ve been left behind!”

"What kind of soldier blames others for their mistakes? I said, fall in line!”

Bertholdt hears Reiner laugh. “Don’t look at me, Connie. A good soldier would’ve never let a simple snowball throw them out of position.”

“He’s going to trample me,” Connie hisses between them. “Let me back in formation!”

“How am I supposed to do that? You want me to fling myself off this cliff so you can get back in line?”

“Cadet Springer! Fall in!”

“I’ll give you a free turn!” Connie begs, his hand on Reiner’s elbow. “You can shove as many snowballs as you want down my back, just don’t let this madman run over me!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll take your place!”

Reiner sprints forward to the next line. In a flash, Connie is beside Bertholdt, breathing heavily as he struggles to keep up with the suddenly frantic pace of the pack, his eyes wide, his arms pumping. Another moment, and the hooves begin to fade away. Shadis falls back, and the group gradually eases back to their steady pace as word travels up the line that they've been relieved of his mad chase down the trail.

"Shit," Connie mutters, though it comes out more like a wheeze. "I thought he was gonna kill me for a second!"

Bertholdt stares forward, trying to keep his gaze on the horizon as they come down the descending slope of the trail. The path widens out once it reaches flat ground, and in the distance, he can see the village drawing closer. It will be just the length of the fields until they arrive at the village gates. He finds himself hardly out of breath as they come down the trail, even after the sprint to escape their drill sergeant. His feet may want him to stop, but he knows that he could run an hour more before his legs gave out. If he had to.

Ahead, he hears Reiner laugh.

“All you have to do is keep running,” he is saying. “It’s not that much further. Look, we’re nearly there!”

Armin takes a breath. “I know. I can do it.”

Across the fields, they run. Their pack fans out when they reach flat ground, spreading further than a shoulders' width so they won't bump into each other every step of the way. The hooves appear in the background again, and they beat louder as Shadis approaches on horseback, picking up a pace to pass them and ride alongside the group. It’s an evaluation, like it is every morning, every day of their lives. The cadets who have been stringing along straighten their backs and raise their chins. Beside Bertholdt, Connie tightens, pressing his lips together in concentration as he focuses all his energy on keeping up with the pack. Bertholdt says nothing.

They are not nearly to the village, not yet. They run around the perimeter of the fields. The trail grows wet beneath their boots, a slush of snow and dirt.They slap through the mud, running in the shadow of the cliffs they’ve just descended from. If one were to stand at the top and squint on a clear day, one could see the rise of Wall Rose in the distance. In the long cold winter, it’s impossible to make out. They’ve been running under the same white sky of unforgiving clouds since the autumn harvest, and they won’t see the sun again until spring.

Sometimes there are clear nights. Bertholdt finds himself drawn outside to sit on the steps of the barracks when the midnight is clear. When the moon is full, it seems to vanquish any clouds, as if its light is too strong to stay hidden for any longer. It shines over the land, revealing what the darkness tries to hide, and in the deep of winter, it’s a light of comfort. He sits and waits as the stars reappear, white points on a dark canvas. He draws the constellations with his hand and tells their stories in his head. Sometimes Reiner joins him. Often, he does not.

The trail weaves sharply as the fields grow closer together— a left turn there, and then right ahead, where the muddy path runs parallel to the main road, only a fence between them. The road leads to the front gates of the village; this morning, it's empty, but there are deep wagon ruts in the snow, the imprints of hooves ahead. The village lingers in a deep sleep. It's midwinter, and there are no fields to plow. The pack of cadets are the only ones about at this time of day, and they keep running when the trail diverges from the road into town. They'll be taking the long way round.

The pack circles the village. Under grey skies, it seems as if hardly any time has passed since they left the training compound at dawn. But the sun is moving somewhere behind those clouds, and the cadets know that the end of their run is near.

They reach the opposite end of town, Shadis' horse hot on their trail. He barks for them to move faster. The pack breaks into a dead sprint. The finish line is in sight, but it is a ways to traverse yet. The trail rises here with the hill on this side of town, built into the low slope of another cliff, the one that embraces this end of the valley. It's a steep climb, a half-moon hill around the village, but from the bottom, up is the only way they have to go.

The cadets press up the hill. Their breaths come faster, their bodies feeling heavier. The group begins to break apart. Stay together, Bertholdt thinks. 

“Fall in line,” Shadis bellows from the foot of the hill. “What kind of soldier leaves their fellow man behind?”

Connie groans. He is bent over as they run the climb, his boots moving steadily but his breaths coming short.

"Fuck this hill," he manages to rasp.

"Move your arms," Bertholdt says. "They'll propel you up."

"I can barely move my feet!"

The line ahead summits at the village gates, and from below, Bertholdt watches Reiner clap Armin on the shoulder as he straightens out, his breaths coming in quick white puffs, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Honestly,” Connie exclaims when they reach the top. They fall in line behind Reiner and Armin, and he puts his hands on his hips, bent over to catch his breath. “If a titan’s chasing me up that damn hill, I’m just going to roll over and take it.”

Reiner glances back and shoots him a grin. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Speak for yourself! We can’t all have buns of steel.” He delivers a swift kick to Reiner’s behind. “What are you doing with all of that anyway?”

A gallop up the hill stirs their hearts. They straighten up, hands behind their backs, as Shadis' horse comes trotting around the back of the pack. He circles them, his steely gaze bearing down on them from atop his horse.

"Look sharp, cadets," he shouts, pulling on the reins. His horse whinnies and trots in place, kicking up snow. “Hands over your hearts and stand tall!”

Twenty-four soldiers raise their right hand into a fist and slam it against their chest, the other arm drawn behind their back. Their superior circles them on horseback, his gaze dark, his expression stiff and unreadable. Bertholdt only gives him a quick glance from the corner of his eye. Shadis is looking at the others, not at him. The salute is a power trick. It silences all soldiers: those who barely broke a sweat on the morning run, who may begin to think too highly of themselves, to remind them of their place; and those for whom a new day of hell is just beginning, those who fall behind, those without discipline, with no business being in the army at all.

Bertholdt observes as Shadis’ horse comes back around to the front of the silent squad. The cadets tremble with anticipation. His face has not changed, but something is shifting in his eyes. He is deciding if they’ve had enough for this morning, if he should send them on another mad hunt back to the compound. Many of them would lose marks for running too slow or stumbling too much, but after three years of training, there are few cadets among the pack who couldn’t finish the run. At this point, the small marks they lose wouldn’t make a difference; the top twenty have already been decided, and everyone else has to be satisfied that they’ve made it this far at all. The next few months are dedicated to sharpening the skills they’ve learned, and through repetition, the top ten will show themselves. Singling out the weak links would serve no real purpose now. They know where they stand.

Finally, the horse trots to a stop at the head of the squad. Shadis stares across them, sending an uneasy wave through the cadets. A quick flick of his hand signals them to stand down, and they relax.

“At ease,” he commands. He grips the reins tightly. “I expect you back in the compound in thirty minutes. If you’re late, there won’t be any breakfast left.”

A sigh of relief floods through the pack when he takes off, charging ahead of them on the path back to the compound. Thirty minutes on foot is walking pace.

Bertholdt takes in a deep breath. The winter air is cold, but fresh; he holds the breath at the top of his lungs for just a moment, letting his eyes fall shut. The sound of the pack disappears from around him. For a moment, he is somewhere else. Away from this place and everything else. Then he lets out the breath and opens his eyes again. Suddenly, a little lighter.

Beside him, Connie grunts and bends to stretch his calves. "Finally! I always knew they took it easy on the third-years. Remember that asshole who always sat around running his mouth when he was supposed to be teaching us how to sharpen our blades and stuff? I nearly lost a finger because of him."

He stands upright and shakes out his arms. "I hated him. What was his name?"

"Johan," Armin answers. His voice rasps. He coughs into his elbow, his face still red from the cold and the wind. "He joined the military police." 

"Fuck," Connie mutters. "Am I going to be surrounded by assholes forever?"

"If you intend to join the military police," Bertholdt says, a little louder than he means. He shrugs. "Well, that's just what I've heard. We should get moving."

Connie glances around at him, his eyes wide. "Where'd you hear that? Who do you know in the military police?"

"No one," Bertholdt says. "I just heard it. We should start walking."

“I’m going to be surrounded by assholes forever,” Connie moans. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

Two hands land on Bertholdt's shoulders. He freezes, a cold shock splitting through his body. But he recognizes the grip immediately, and then he relaxes, glancing over at his shoulder at Reiner. Reiner grins at him. At least there were no snowballs involved.

"I think what Bertholdt is trying to say," Reiner says, and he shakes Bertholdt by the shoulders, rocking him back and forth where he stands, "is that the military police attracts a certain kind of overachiever and you should get used to that, Connie."

"Stop it," Bertholdt protests. He stumbles forward in the snow, ducking to escape Reiner's grip; Reiner lets him go and turns to Connie.

"I can't be around any more overachievers," Connie exclaims. "I hang around you two enough as it is."

“And you thought it would be better in the military police?”

The pack of cadets dissipates as they begin their journey back to the training compound. They walk away from town, trailing along the main road towards the other end of the valley. Bertholdt ends up behind Reiner again, who must know that he's egging on Connie, who carries on his rant, kicking up snow with his boots as he goes. Armin has gone ahead to join the rest of the squad, who are far ahead by now, eagerly heading home for breakfast. 

The village begins to come to life as the grey sky lightens up. Down the road, Bertholdt can hear people begin to move about, and the traffic on the road increases with each minute. Children race past them with homemade ice skates in hand, making fresh footprints in the thick snow that's fallen over the road. Farmers pass in the opposite direction, dragging wagons of milk and eggs into town to sell. Another day of quiet life in the country is beginning.

Bertholdt is not oblivious to the looks they receive as they pass the townspeople on the road. Their thick green sweaters are military-issued wool. Their white pants and tall boots. The silver patches sewn onto their sleeves. They are marked. 

There is little else in the countryside for miles. Wall Rose rises in the distance, but the village lies alone in the valley, overlooking fields and farms for as far as the plain eye can see. Great cliffs surround the land, and it is in the shadow of the farthest cliff where the training compound lies, where cadets have been coming and going for decades. The military remains a vital presence in the region and the main source of economic support for the tiny town; yet it is a presence of disdain— for their lives, their noise, their disturbances, or their plans and hopes, their bothersome efforts to live a life of something other than resigned silence.

The other cadets are far ahead. Bertholdt's not sure if Connie notices the way the villagers look away when their trio passes by, but he knows that Reiner does. He sees it in the way Reiner's shoulders tighten, how his jaw tenses and his voice drops to a low hushed breath as he talks to his comrade. How he glances over his shoulder for Bertholdt, and how when Bertholdt meets his eyes, he is in there.

"He used to make us listen to all those stupid fake stories about the girls he met when he went home on leave," Connie is saying to Reiner. "Do you remember that? And we'd tell him to shut up and let us focus, because we could barely hear him anyway over all the metal."

"Yeah, I remember," Reiner says.

“I can’t believe he was allowed to be in charge of us. You know, I’m not saying I’m some kind of expert or anything, but at least when I’m given first-years to mentor, I make a fucking eff-“

A snowball strikes him on the arm.

Three children on the road burst into giggles, hiding their mouths behind their scarves and gloves as they laugh. They scurry ahead, already pressing more tiny snowballs in their heads, sparing only a glance over their shoulder as they trot off in the snow.

"What the hell," Connie mutters, stopping dead on the road. He stares down at his sweater, snow clinging to the wool. "The kids in this town, I swear. Oy, get back here!"

If anything, the children laugh harder. They keep running, ice skates swinging in their hands as they disappear along the road. The rest of the villagers are not laughing, and Bertholdt glances over his shoulder at the road into town. His chest tightens. The townspeople have stopped, some of them turned back to watch the cadets, their gazes quiet, their stares focused. A farmer approaching with a squeaky cart behind him comes upon the silence and stops too, his whistling trailing off.

"Little brats," Connie mutters under his breath. He smacks the snow off his sleeve. "I swear—"

"What's your problem, mate?" a villager exclaims from behind them. He's tugging along a bleating goat, and he stands in the center of the road, a glare drawing over his face as he stares at them.

Connie purses his lips. "Nothing. Come on, guys, we've got places to be."

"C'mon, say it out loud," the young villager calls. "We all heard you anyway. You called my little sister a brat. How 'bout you pick on someone your own size?"

"What, like you?" Connie exclaims, whipping around to face him, and all bets are off as the villager sneers, his grip tightening on the rope, the goat bleating louder. "No thanks, I think your time would be better spent teaching you sister how to show respect."

"Like you deserve any," the villager sneers.

"Come closer and say that to my face, you—"

"Hey, hey," Reiner exclaims. 

He comes out of nowhere, brushing past Bertholdt to step in between Connie and the villager. With one hand behind his back, holding Connie where he stands, he outstretches the other to the villager, a gesture of peace. He breaks into a smile, and at once, the villager eases down, taking a step back and letting his snarl turn into a mere scowl. Reiner glances back at Connie and gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder.

"We're not afraid of a little snowball, are we?" he says brightly.

Connie seems to struggle not to argue, his gaze still fixed on the villager who stares back at him. In the back of his mind, Bertholdt struggles too. He's missing breakfast because of this.

Reiner's grip tightens on Connie’s shoulder. “Are we, Connie?”

He wrings his arm out of Reiner’s grasp, but the tension falls from his body and he sighs, shaking his head. “No, we’re not.”

The villager throws them one last glare before stalking past with his goat in tow. The other townspeople turn away too, their morning routines returning to normal. Connie huffs and starts back to the compound; Bertholdt lets out a breath. Another village brawl, narrowly avoided. Shadis would’ve had their heads if they’d been responsible for a fight. He might still have their heads if he hears about what just happened. The last few years have seen the village nearly starved out by their own fields; food is scarce in this part of Wall Rose, where refugees flooded in through the valley, and the military struggled to provide for them. The military can pay surplus for grain through the winter. Most folk cannot.

He watches Reiner stand there for a moment more, before he turns around and catches Bertholdt looking at him. He gives him a smile and throws an arm around his shoulders.

“You guys don’t want to stay for a snowball fight?” he laughs. “Hey Connie, I bet that little girl could take you!"

“Oh, piss off,” Connie yells over his shoulder.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt exclaims, and for the second time in just the first hour of the morning, he pulls himself out from under Reiner’s arm, a chill running through his body. “We’re really late.”

“Hey, come on," Reiner says. He pokes Bertholdt on the cheek. "I just saved the day."

The trail back to the compound has been plowed by the boots of the cadets before them, who must be having their breakfast by now. They walk paces apart. Connie leads, his footsteps fast and light on the snow until he is a league ahead of Bertholdt, who walks with his hands by his sides, the tips of his fingers just beginning to turn red and numb. Reiner is behind him; no matter how Bertholdt drags his feet, Reiner is always the same distance behind, never close but never far. Bertholdt can feel him, walking in his shadow.

They would be easy to pick off like this. It would happen one by one, and so quickly that Bertholdt would not have much time to think. Connie first, a dark speck on the snowy horizon that Bertholdt would see one moment, and then glance up the next to find that it had disappeared. By the time he noticed, Reiner would be gone too. Bertholdt would be left surrounded on all sides with the enemy approaching from behind, and he would get no second chance to doubt himself.

They carry on quietly, their boots mushing through the slush of dirt and snow, following the trail down the road to the training compound, where it lies in the shadow of the tall cliff. For a moment, it seems as though the sun might show its face. The sky grows whiter, the clouds getting thinner. Bertholdt slows, his eyes turned higher. He watches the clouds drift overhead as he passes through the compound gates, but the sun never breaks through.

His stomach growls. First-year cadets sprint past them, fumbling with 3DMG harnesses as a whistle blows somewhere across the compound. He follows Connie to the barracks, where the cadets are changing into their 3DMG for a morning of drills.

"Why are you three so late?" Eren asks, pulling on a shirt as they enter.

Connie yanks it up over his head. "Mind your own business."

They replace their thick wool sweaters for the standard uniform, strapping themselves into their harnesses. Bertholdt shivers when they step outside again without the warm layer of wool; but they'll be warm soon enough, once they're flying through the trees. The cadets convene in the center of the compound. Bertholdt follows Reiner, watching him a shoulders' width behind as they retrieve their equipment. Reiner catches him and grins.

Bertholdt swallows. "What?"

"Nothing," Reiner says. He raises an eyebrow. "Stare much?"

"Hey, thanks for missing breakfast, guys," Ymir exclaims, slinking over. She crosses her arms, smirking at them. "Some of us actually got to eat for once without you two at the table."

She rolls her eyes. “Of course, Little Miss Perfect had to save you some, didn’t she?”

"It's just bread," Christa says, coming up behind her. She's flushed when she glances at Ymir, but she just shakes her head and passes Reiner and Bertholdt a roll each. “There was porridge too, but I couldn’t exactly sneak that out.”

“Dump it in your pockets,” Ymir says. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Thanks, Christa,” Reiner exclaims. He tears his roll in two and nudges Bertholdt. "Right, Bertholdt?" 

“You really didn’t have to do that,” Bertholdt mutters.

Another nudge. “I said, right, Bertholdt?”

“Thank you, Christa.”

Ymir gags. “Right, Bertholdt? I’ve got some porridge in my stomach if either of you want me to barf it into your mouths.”

A whistle blows, and the cadets scurry to fall in line, two by two, twenty-four of them in twelve rows through the center of the compound. Bertholdt falls in beside Reiner, each of them desperately stuffing bread into their mouths before the drill sergeant sees them. He makes the mistake of looking sideways at Reiner, whose cheeks are puffed out as he chews; something cold melts in Bertholdt, something tense that collapses from his shoulders and unties the knot in his stomach, and he has to throw a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing out loud.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt glances at him. “Do you think we’re supposed to really try?”

One, two. 

One hand on top of the others, palms pressing down. Push hard, push fast. Three, four. Don't stop. Don't stop. 

"You're losing him," Annie says.

Back to one, two, three, four. Press harder on the next four beats. Don't give up.

"I'm trying," he mutters between his teeth. Harder, deeper. One, two.

"That was thirty," she orders. "Pucker up."

Bertholdt sits back on his heels. He takes a deep breath, reaching for the muslin cloth in his pocket. He can tell he's sweating. The dummy lying at his knees stares lifelessly up at him when he leans over, and he grimaces before bending to give it two quick rescue breaths through the muslin. Its leather skin waxes beneath his hands. Too firm, packed too tightly with hay, and too warm after an hour of cadets fumbling with its lifeless form. The leather sticks to his fingers when he moves.

"Okay," comes a soft voice from above. Bertholdt jerks up, but the instructor isn't talking to him. She gets to her knees beside the pair of cadets across from him and shares a gentle smile with Franz and Hannah. 

"Your compressions were good, but you missed a step," she says kindly, hands in her lap. "Do you remember what it was?"

A hand flies to Hannah's mouth. "I forgot the cloth."

"Mm-hmm, and now you have herpes. You see the red dots I marked on the dummy? Cold sores, right? Remember, you never know what you're going to encounter in the field, even when you're trying to save someone's life."

Hannah's chin quivers, and she turns her wide eyes to Franz. "I could have given you herpes."

"But you didn't," he gushes. He reaches across the dummy to grasp her hands, beaming at her. "You did amazing!"

The instructor's smile wilts. "Okay, now you've touched her hand, which might have infectious material on it because she touched her mouth with it, so make sure you don't—"

"He's dead," Annie says.

Bertholdt turns back to her, blinking. "What?"

She gestures at the body between them. "You got distracted and killed him."

He glances down at the dummy. Somehow, though it has no face, no heartbeat, it does seem more lifeless than before. He grabs the muslin cloth and sits back sheepishly. "Sorry."

"I hope you'd be paying attention if this were real."

"Sorry," he repeats, though he doesn't know exactly why he apologizes. "I thought the teacher was talking to me. I didn't want to miss anything."

Annie sighs. "At least you didn't get herpes."

Bertholdt looks away, glancing over his shoulder. The rest of the cadets have already taken their turns on the dummies; they're supposed to practice treating burn wounds after they've finished, but most of them are swapping lecture notes or chatting idly. They hang out, sitting casually on the stacked classroom seats, jumping up and down and trading chairs every few minutes. The idea of a day off has gotten to their heads, and there's only one more class standing in the way of that. A full day of freedom— no lectures, no morning runs, no times to be anywhere or do anything.

Some of the cadets from Trost will be heading home as soon as classes end tonight, but most of them are content to stick around the barracks and simply sleep in. Bertholdt knows without asking that most of them have nowhere else to go, even if they wanted to. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to a good night's sleep too.

The instructor appears beside him, her hands clasped as she gives a small smile to Bertholdt and Annie, who are clearly not doing any work. "So, how are we doing over here?"

"Fine," Bertholdt says, glancing back. "Um, I was just—"

"He got distracted and killed our subject," Annie says. 

Bertholdt sucks in a breath. "Well, I just—"

"That's alright," the instructor says, putting a hand on his arm. "We, ah, normally call them patients, not subjects, but um, just show me how you're doing the compressions." 

He refocuses. One hand over the other, count to thirty, faster than he always thinks. He leans over the dummy and begins compressions. The leather skin sucks onto the palms of his hands. He's sweating. He doesn't know why he's sweating, why his pulse picks up with eyes on him. He already knows how to do this. It's been drilled into his head. The instructor isn't even correcting his posture. He's sitting too far back on his heels. He should be on his knees over the body, bearing down with brute force in each beat. One, two inches deep. Three, four. He should be breaking ribs.

Someone shrieks, and laughter peels out over the classroom. Bertholdt lets it go, keeping count in his head. One, two. Annie's not even paying attention. She's just taking the piss out of him. That doesn't mean he's going to let her.

Thirty compressions in rapid succession to shock the heart back to life. Bertholdt glances up, his muslin cloth at the ready, to find the instructor across the room with her back turned.

"They're just breasts," Ymir exclaims. She looms over the dummy at her knees, a beanbag held up in each hand. She stares her partner in the eye as she slaps them onto the dummy's chest. "What's wrong with that?"

Across from her, Jean recoils. "What are you doing? Take them off!"

"You're gonna tell this little old lady who just had a heart attack to cut off her knockers before you'll resuscitate her?"

The instructor flashes them an uneasy smile. "Okay, so let's—"

"Where am I supposed to put my hands?" Jean exclaims, scowling.

"Over her heart, you asshole! She's a person too!"

Something thuds just behind Bertholdt. He glances up, and he gets a perfectly upside-down view of Reiner, who stands over him, the sleeves of his green sweater rolled up, a grin painted on his face as he clunks down the from the seats with a roll of bandages in his hand. He drops past Bertholdt, laughing.

"Go easy on him, Ymir," he calls across the room. "Clearly it's his first time up close."

The classroom titters with laughter. Jean whips around, his face red, and he seethes at Reiner, who shrugs past him and continues to the front desk where he tosses a roll of practice bandages into the supply bin. The instructor wrestles the beanbags from Ymir as gently as possible, before she turns to the classroom, the cadets spilling over the seats in disarray; she must realize she is fighting a losing battle. The hour is over, and she seems to make up her mind, shaking her head and plastering a smile back onto her face as she reroutes to Bertholdt and Annie.

"I'm so sorry," she says sweetly to Bertholdt. "I didn't catch that, but I'm sure you were fine. We'll keep practicing next week, okay?"

"Okay," Bertholdt mumbles as she drags the dummy away. 

Annie brushes past him without another word, climbing to the back of the classroom. Bertholdt tucks the muslin into his pocket and stands, only to come face-to-face with Reiner, who stands before him, one hand raised in the air. His whole arm is wrapped sloppily in bandages, the work of bored cadets with time to waste; the bandages on the inside of his palm, which he shoves indelicately in Bertholdt's face, have been artfully decorated with a graphic drawing that Bertholdt recognizes as the likely handiwork of Connie.

He glances up at Reiner. "Really?"

"I've got a terrible injury," Reiner whines, turning his lips into a pout. He frowns at Bertholdt and bats his eyes. "Give it a kiss."

Bertholdt slaps his hand away. "No."

"C'mon, Bert, that's the only way it will get better! Think Christa will kiss it for me?"

"Not if you show her that side."

Reiner folds up his hand and grins. "You looked like you were having fun. Get any good mouth-to-mouth practice?" 

"Shut up," Bertholdt mutters.

He turns away, and Reiner grabs him by the shoulders to give him a good shake, say that he's just kidding, like he always is, that Bertholdt shouldn't be such a stiff all the time.

The instructor vanishes with the dummies when the hour comes to an end; or maybe she does say a farewell, and none of the cadets hear it because the end of the day is so near and they've given up on pretending to pay attention to to anyone who won't force them to do so. They scatter across the rows of seats to squeeze in next to their friends, knowing that they only have a few minutes before their next instructor arrives. Bertholdt climbs to take a seat in the back, but the only open spaces are beside Franz and Hannah, who don't seem particularly concerned about the spread of hypothetical herpes as they canoodle in the corner. He drops into a middle seat instead, at the end of an aisle next to Armin, who has his hair pulled back and his teacher voice on as he coaches Eren through a study guide for next week's logical reasoning exam. 

Reiner slides into the seat on the other side of the aisle and turns to talk to Connie. For a moment, Bertholdt thinks he's going to be left alone. Maybe he can close his eyes for a few minutes before their next lesson. Maybe he can fall asleep without anyone noticing, and when he wakes, the day will be over and he can return to his bunk in silence for the rest of the night. But the chatter never stops. He slumps in his seat, hands running idly along the edge of the desk, as he stares at the chalkboard and wills quiet over his classmates. 

Jean pounds up the steps, shaking his head. "They're crazy if they think I'm ever putting my mouth on some stranger like that. Yeah, right!"

"It does work," Sasha says, glancing up from the doodles in her notebook. "At least on dogs."

"Ugh," Jean mutters. He scans the room, but the cadets have all settled into their seats, so he drops into the only open space in front of Bertholdt and stretches his legs into the aisle. "How does she know that?"

Bertholdt declines to notice if Jean is talking to him; he lets his head fall back, crossing his arms tightly across his body. Not a second later, he hears Reiner wheeze, and he jerks upright, hissing when he slams his knees on the desk.

"Officer Kirschstein," Reiner exclaims. He clutches one heart to his chest and falls dramatically across his desk, reaching over the aisle to Jean. "I can't breathe! Please, you've got to give me mouth-to-mouth!"

Jean recoils. "No, thanks."

"Please, officer," Connie cries from the row behind Reiner. "It's the only way!"

"Mouth-to-mouth does work," Sasha repeats, gazing over the drama. She turns her gaze. "Eren, your dad was a doctor. It works, doesn't it?"

Eren blinks at her, ink smeared over his left cheek. "What? Yeah, sure. What does this mean though, how am I supposed to know what X is?"

"It's just math," Armin is saying, his pencil tapping the page insistently. "You can do it in your head. Look, if you subtract the total value of the property stolen from the total value of the property listed in the report, then what's leftover is the total value of—"

"I can't do that in my head!"

Sasha turns back to her notebook, shrugging. "It does work."

Reiner leans back in his chair and flexes his arms behind his head. "She's right, Jean. I've done plenty of mouth-to-mouth."

Jean scowls at him. "What, with the mirror?"

"Hey, Bertholdt," Reiner says suddenly. He drops squarely into his seat, turning into the aisle to face Bertholdt, the spotlight of the conversation refocusing on them. "If you had to resuscitate anyone in this room, who would it be?"

Bertholdt slumps back in his seat. "That's a stupid question."

"No, come on," Reiner says. "You have to play."

"I don't want to play."

He stretches one leg across the aisle and nudges Bertholdt's calf with the toe of his boot. "If we all dropped dead right now, and you had to pick one of us, who would you give the kiss of life to?"

"I'm not answering that," Bertholdt mutters. 

"If you tell me yours," Reiner says with a grin, "I'll tell you mine."

A giggle sparks on the other side of the classroom. A handful of girls sitting idly on their desks explode into a sudden sprinkle of laughter, clasping their hands over their mouths to keep it contained, though with not much success. They huddle together tightly, whispering to each other. Reiner raises an eyebrow at him, and Bertholdt rolls his eyes; so does Jean, when he sees Bertholdt do it. 

"Ooh, Bertholdt," Connie calls. "Pick me, pretty please?"

Bertholdt shoots Reiner a glare. "You're an idiot." 

"If we all dropped dead," Eren blurts out, glancing past Armin's exasperation, "there'd be no point in doing mouth-to-mouth on anyone."

Reiner clutches a hand to his heart. "You wouldn't even try to save me, Eren? I'm devastated."

"Not if I knew you were already dead."

"Eren, please," Armin exclaims, "it's not that hard if you just pay attention—"

Reiner slams his fist on the desk. "Won't anyone give me the breath of life?!"

"They wouldn't teach it to us if it didn't really work," Sasha offers without looking up. 

"Then why am I about to sit through a seminar on—" Jean thrusts one hand out as he squints at the class schedule scrawled on the chalkboard. "Community relations? What the hell does that even mean?"

Connie whistles across the room. "Hey Armin, what is this class about?"

Armin glances over his shoulder, blinking. "What? It's— what are we doing now, community relations? It's just public speaking and stuff. It shouldn't be hard. Eren, they're round numbers, just subtract them."

Connie shrugs at Jean. "It's public speaking and stuff."

"Thanks, I got that," Jean growls. "Why the hell are we doing this?"

"Well, Jean," Reiner sighs as he leans back into his seat. He stretches his legs out into the aisle and crosses his ankles over each other, lacing his fingers together behind his head. "Some of us are born with charisma, but unfortunately they have to teach it to the rest of you. So sorry about that."

Bertholdt lets himself smile at that; he uncrosses his arms and leans forward onto his desk, rolling his eyes when Reiner smirks across the aisle at him. From the row below, Jean glares up at him, and Bertholdt's smile slips. 

"Oh, yeah right," he mutters to Bertholdt. "Don't pretend like you're looking forward to this either. Just because you're ranked number two doesn't mean you can be good at everything." 

"Number two?" Reiner's chair drops onto all fours when he sits forward, staring across the aisle at Bertholdt. His eyes grow wide, and he gapes. "I thought I was number two. What the hell?"

Bertholdt folds his arms close to his chest. "The rankings aren't official yet. It's just a projection based on our last exams."

"But I was number two," Reiner exclaims. "You can't just steal my spot out from under me and not say anything."

"We're still months out from graduation," Bertholdt says. He gives a little shrug. "You can have number two back if you really want it."

"Aw, just like that?"

Bertholdt holds back a smirk. "Well, it would be nice if you did something to deserve it."

Something wicked flashes in Reiner's eyes. "If I saved your life with mouth-to-mouth, would you give it to me?"

Connie laughs out loud suddenly. "Hold on, guys— imagine being on patrol and having to resuscitate some old man in the street!"

"Gross," Jean mutters. He turns around and flops back into his chair with his arms crossed. "No, thanks."

"Hey, come on, what happened to Mr. Military Police? I thought you signed up to be a hero!"

"I didn't sign up for _this!"_

"Wait, wait," Connie continues, barely able to get his words out through a fit of giggles, "what would be worse: an old man, or an old woman?"

"Connie, shut the fuck up."

"No, wait, even better: an old woman, or Shadis?" 

The classroom door closes with strict precision. So quietly, but so coldly; a silent chill rushes through the room, and none of the cadets have to look up to know who is standing by the door, waiting for their attention. For how long Shadis has been watching them fool around, Bertholdt doesn't know. But he figures it can't bode well for any of them, especially considering the grim look on the sergeant's face. Something about the deep lines and deadness in his eyes seems especially potent today, and Bertholdt sinks a little in his seat. 

Shadis' boots track snow into the classroom on their soles when he crosses to the head of the room. Anyone else would be issued a demerit for scraping snow into the room, leaving a wet mess on the floor, but Bertholdt suspects that he does it on purpose. Another slight trick of power, and it works. The cadets sit in deathly silence, unmoving. Hardly anyone dares breathe.

He casts his gaze over the classroom for another excruciating second of silence before he addresses them. 

"Glad to see we're all having fun," Shadis says drily. "Take your seats." 

The cadets spring into frantic action; those sitting on top of their desks leap upright to scramble around, and more than one of them loses coordination and falls straight to the floor. The others straighten up, backs erect against their chairs, trembling hands set flatly on their desks. Shadis speaks with the absolute authority of a drill instructor even in the small confines of the classroom, a place where the cadets rarely see him. The low pitch of his voice barely resonates off the walls, but he is the only thing they hear. It's more than just unnerving— it's terrifying, especially not knowing what he's going to say to them.

"As you know," he begins without preface, "your third-year curriculum is supplemented by special seminars to introduce you to some of the more advanced topics you may encounter in your military career. These lessons have been implemented by the capital to prevent you from being complete and utter morons when you start working, though some of you seem to be challenging that demand."

From the corner of his eye, Bertholdt watches Connie sweat in terror.

"The civics seminar will still take place in the spring as planned," Shadis continues, folding his hands behind his back. "Unfortunately, I've just received word that your community relations instructor has been delayed in Wall Sina and won't be able to join us this year."

He turns his steely gaze onto the class. "I say _unfortunately_ because it leaves me stuck with you lot for an extra few hours each week."

Cold dread runs through the cadets.

"Rest assured," he says, "there's nothing on earth that could convince me to teach this class myself. I see enough of your miserable faces as it is. As the situation stands, the seminar will have to be cancelled."

"Sir," comes Armin's voice from beside Bertholdt. He half-heartedly raises one hand. "The community relations topic is part of the third-year exam. It's required for graduation." 

"A fact it might please you to know," Shadis barks, his gaze flicking to Armin without moving his head, "that I'm readily aware of, Cadet, considering that I am the one who writes the exam."

He turns back to them. "So I've prepared an alternative."

Bertholdt casts a furtive glance from the corner of his eye. The rest of the class seems to be doing the same, slowly turning to each other with apprehension. Some look more confused than others, but a quiet consensus washes over the room that they're curious, if slightly terrified. Several of the cadets appear disappointed that Shadis isn't going to let them use those extra hours every week to sleep in, an opportunity that Bertholdt has to admit sounds like a good idea to him. Someone mutters, "as long as we're not scrubbing toilets," and the classroom seems to echo likewise, murmuring to each other under their breath. In the first row, Mikasa puts a curt hand in the air. 

"What exactly will we be doing, sir?" she asks. 

The classroom drops into dead silence again, because the strangest expression pulls over Shadis' face. It's almost like a smile— or what a smile might look like on the face of someone who'd never seen a smile before, and was being forced to try it out at gunpoint. Bertholdt throws a quick glance to Reiner, who meets his eyes with a slightly panicked look that means they're both thinking the same thing: what have they just agreed to?

"I'm glad you asked, Ackerman," Shadis barks, the menacing smile growing ever wider. "You'll be getting to try your hand at real community relations out in the streets. Some of you may know that the nearby district of Trost is known throughout the walls for its annual stage festival. People come from all over to enjoy the festivities: song and dance and that kind of shit. It's a big deal around here. Lots of security."

The whole classroom seems to let out a breath. They can do security.

"Most of the villages in this region have their own stage festivals," Shadis continues. "The same kind of shit on a smaller scale. Music and poetry and whatever."

"Oh, we do that in my village," Connie exclaims, rocketing up in his seat. "I'm sure it's nothing like the one in Trost, but people do all sorts of dances and they put on plays, you guys would love it—"

"Yes, thank you, Springer," Shadis interjects. "I'm sure it's great fun. You should all be looking forward to it, in fact, because I've recently heard from the mayor of our neighboring town that their annual stage festival's gotten quite depressing in the last five years— as have many things— so I've volunteered you lucky lot to get out there and engage in some good old-fashioned community relations."

They stare at him. 

"You mean," Jean says slowly, "as security, sir?"

Shadis scoffs. "You think a village festival needs security? No, I mean as performers."

Silence rings over the classroom. Bertholdt's never felt so deafened by a lack of words, and after a moment, he glances around at his fellow cadets. There are a few excited faces in the crowd. Connie has stars in his eyes. The majority of them seem simply stunned into silence. Performers, he thinks numbly.

"Performers," he finds himself repeating aloud.

Shadis stares back at them. "Unless you'd rather scrub toilets."

"Sir," Marco asks, sticking an unsure hand into the air. "I think we're just a little confused—"

"Then let me make it clear," Shadis booms. The smile disappears. "You're all going to find whatever tiny amount of talent you have left in your brains, and you're going to perform in this goddamn stage festival. I've told the mayor I have twenty-four warm bodies to spare, so even if only a fraction of you can carry a tune, that should be enough to keep the entire event from going under. Got it?"

"But they _hate_ us," Connie whimpers. 

Shadis narrows his eyes. "And how do you propose we fix that, cadet? Let me answer for you: community relations! This festival's just about the only thing the people in this town care about, so you're going to go out there and put on a show of good faith to let them know you care too!"

He scans the room. "Surely, some of you can sing or some shit?"

"Oh—"

"Shut up, Springer. Anyone else?" He pauses, but no one budges. "None of you? For fuck's sakes, it's a variety show. None of you can sing or dance or get up onstage and tell toilet jokes?"

"Oh, well," suddenly comes Annie's mutter from behind Bertholdt. "If toilet jokes are allowed, then count me in."

Shadis scowls at them. "You better start scraping the bottoms of your brains. Auditions are tomorrow, and you will all be there." 

Protests breathe half-heartedly through the room. Part of Bertholdt wants to agree: that they're supposed to have tomorrow off, that this whole idea is bound to end in disaster, that he doesn't know if a single one of them has what it takes to succeed onstage. The townspeople will not take too kindly to a group of military cadets joining their midwinter festival, which is supposed to be a time of celebration, to enjoy song and dance during the bleakest days of the year; especially this year, especially after the years they'd had since the fall of the wall. Most of the cadets must think the same thing, sitting up straight and opening their mouths when Shadis glares at them. But he marches out of the classroom, leaving them sitting in a stupefied silence, turning to each other and wondering where they're supposed to get a lick of talent overnight. 

With the day's lessons at an end, the cadets quickly depart and scramble back to their barracks. Their free day has been taken, and a plan quickly forms to escape to the nearby lake for an hour or so before the sun goes down, an hour of ice skates and snowball fights until it's time to return for dinner. They might as well enjoy their free time while they have it, because at this rate, Shadis is going to take all of it from them. Bertholdt follows the crowd. He'd rather head straight to the barracks and squeeze in a nap while the bunks are quiet, but Reiner grabs him by the arm and insists that he isn't going to spend his only night off alone. 

The lake is half a league from the compound. By the time they arrive, the daylight is fading. The winter sun is barely visible through a cover of thick white clouds, and the scenery lies frozen in an ever-darkening grayness that falls heavily over the fields. Most of the cadets have no proper ice skates; they wouldn't know how to use them even if they did, so they bound onto the frozen ice with just their boots, sliding unsteadily towards each other and spinning out to land flat on their bums.

Bertholdt sits apart from the crowd that makes camp on the lakeside. He finds a spot to scrape the ice with the toes of his boots, and he sits in silence, knees curled up to his body, watching the skaters pass by. To his surprise, Reiner follows him there, and then it's not long before the other boys come too, rubbing their sore behinds. 

The conversation turns to the stage festival. Bertholdt watches the ice, trying to tune them out; in his mind, the whole situation is an exercise in excuses. They are supposed to fail, to be miserable and untalented on purpose. Shadis has nothing else for them do to, so he is hoping they will make fools of themselves and give the townspeople something for entertainment. Maybe that will be good enough to ease the tensions through the winter. It won't be hard to do either, he thinks, as the boys spout increasingly ridiculous ideas for stage acts. Few of them know how to do anything other than take orders.

Jean sits quietly through most of the talk, lying back on his elbows. He watches the skaters with Bertholdt, but after the third suggestion of staying up all night to learn a group circus act, he looks to the others with a scoff.

"Are any of you actually taking this seriously?" he asks, and the small group falls quiet, rumbling in agreement as if they'd been thinking the same thing all along. "It just seems like a waste of time to me."

"I don't know," Marco says from Jean's other side. He tries to speak lightly, the voice of reason, his arms folded over his knees as he watches the skaters fall. Even he seems to be apprehensive, and he speaks slowly as if he's still sounding out whether this is a good idea or just a new method of humiliation. "It could be good practice."

"Practice for what?" Jean scoffs.

"Community relations is an important part of policing," he says, glancing around. This time, he seems to mean it. "It'll be good for us to get out of the compound and interact with real people."

Jean rolls his eyes, turning away.

"I wish we were taking the real course," Marco continues. "The instructor's supposed to be a specialist in the MP. But this way, we'll get to be out in the town. I think it'll be interesting."

Bertholdt picks at a loose thread in the cuff of his sweater.

"The people here hate us," Jean mutters. He digs his bare hand into the snow and crunches a fistful between his red fingers.

"It's not personal," Marco muses. "They only hate the military."

"We _are_ the military."

"Well," he says, but now his voice is strained, "we'll just have to find a way to get on. Maybe we can show them that we're not that bad after all."

Bertholdt unravels the thread further than he means to. It hangs out of his cuff, but it won't go when he tries to stuff it back into the sweater. He tucks it under instead, out of sight. He feels Reiner watching him, and he says nothing when Reiner finally leans over, his knees making fresh indents in the snow between them as he pinches the thread at Bertholdt's cuff and tears it off.

"That was killing me," Reiner mutters.

Bertholdt pulls the sleeve over his hand. "Thanks."

"Are you two going along with this?" Jean asks, sitting upright. He brushes snow from his elbow and turns to Reiner and Bertholdt, watching them with a furrowed brow.

Bertholdt shrugs. “It’s for a grade, isn’t it?”

From behind them, Connie starts. He’s pacing restlessly, determinedly packing snowballs with his red fingers, undoubtedly waiting for the right time to take revenge on Reiner. He pops up behind them, distressed.

“A real grade?” he exclaims. “Do you think Shadis is actually going to judge us on how well we do in our auditions?”

“He’s not coming to our auditions,” Jean exclaims, whacking Connie on the knee. “He’s just pawning us off to play nice with the local folk because he doesn’t have anything better to do with us.”

“I don’t know,” Reiner says with a shrug. He’s rolled the dark green thread into a ball and he presses it between two fingers, squishing it together. “It could be fun.”

“See?” Connie exclaims. He smothers the snowball on Jean’s head. “It could be fun.”

“Ugh, get off me!”

Marco leans forward, looking past Jean. “What’s your talent going to be, Reiner?”

Reiner presses the thread between his fingers, a smile coming upon his face as he stares over the lake, watching the skaters crash. “I don’t know yet. It’s a shame I can only pick one.”

Bertholdt glances at him. “Do you think we’re supposed to really try?”

“What? Why wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know,” Bertholdt says. He rests his chin on his knees. “I thought maybe Shadis was trying to make fools of us on purpose. You know, for community relations.”

“Shit,” Jean mutters.

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Reiner says. “What’s your talent, Marco?”

“Well, I’m not a great singer, but I guess that’s all I’ve got.” He looks to his side. “Jean can sing, though. Is that going to be your talent?”

Connie returns. “You can sing?!”

Jean kicks his feet out, spilling snow onto the ice. “I can carry a tune. But I’m not a singer. And I don’t want to be in the show anyway.”

“Fine, then leave the singing to the rest of us,” Connie exclaims. He slaps himself proudly on the chest. “Because I _am_ a singer, and there’s only going to be so many spotlights to go around."

"Great," Jean mutters. "You can have them all."

Connie glances over the rest of them, as if he can evaluate their singing ability based on their looks. He passes over Reiner and narrows his eyes at Bertholdt. “You’re not going to be singing, are you?”

“Oh,” Bertholdt says shortly. “No.”

“Then what’s your talent?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. He stretches his legs out and hopes that will be the end of it. He wishes he could stand up and end this conversation, but now all of their eyes are on him, waiting for him to say something. Right now, he wishes he knew how to disappear.

“Nothing?” Connie exclaims after another moment of silence. “You’re good at everything, you should be able to come up with something.”

Jean scoffs and tosses a snowball onto the ice. "Being a soldier isn't a talent. It's got to be arts and crafts or whatever."

"Can't you juggle or something? Can't you at least pretend?"

Bertholdt shakes his head. “Sorry. I can't think of anything."

Connie huffs, turning back to the rest of them. “You’re all going to make us look bad.”

“Yeah,” Jean mutters, drawing a line in the snow. “I think we’d established that was the point of this whole exercise.”

The grey sky grows darker by the minute, and before long, the cadets head back to the compound, racing through the snow to beat the darkness. There’ll be no moonlight tonight, not if the cloud cover keeps up; they make it through the front gates of the compound just in time, the lanterns guiding their way to the canteen for dinner. The conversation remains on the stage festival, no matter how much anyone tries to steer it away.

For his part, Bertholdt stays quiet, giving an abrupt answer when asked again and again what he’s going to use for his audition tomorrow. He’s not planning on following through with the audition. He’ll show up and sink into the background, out of sight. He doesn’t have any clue what he would do if he had to get up onstage, so he figures he’ll let the others sort it all out. Connie’s the only one genuinely eager in performing, but a few of the other cadets seem to have hidden talents. Sasha laments that her audition would be great if she only had a fiddle. Some of the girls get up in the middle of dinner and kick up a square dance, to the great amusement of the other classes. Eren impresses everyone by beginning a recitation of all the bones in the human body, but it becomes clear that it’s maybe the most boring talent to perform onstage, and he is booed to silence.

Reiner keeps the rest of them guessing. He insists he’ll have something prepared for his audition, but he says it with a smirk. Bertholdt can’t tell if he’s serious, or if he’s just going to get up onstage tomorrow and make innuendos until the director kicks him out. With Reiner, it could go either way.

There are card games after dinner, the candles lit in their barracks long past the usual curfew hour. Bertholdt wins a few hands and wonders if a grave poker face counts as a talent. It’s deep in the night by the time they crawl to their bunks for bed, and he lies on his back in silence, staring at the ceiling as Reiner clambers onto the bunk beside him.

“Break a leg tomorrow,” someone mutters before the last candle is blown out, and a chuckle rolls through the bunks.

In the darkness, Bertholdt shifts to look at Reiner. His form is barely visible with the candlelight gone, but Bertholdt watches him, making out his features until he is sure that Reiner can feel his gaze. 

"Are you actually taking this seriously?" Bertholdt whispers.

Reiner rolls to face him. In the darkness, something is different between them. Everything is quieter, softer, and as his eyes adjust to the dark, Bertholdt recognizes the familiar lines of Reiner’s face, up close, a comfort.

“No,” Reiner mutters. He yawns. “But it could be fun, don’t you think?”

“Getting up onstage in front of everyone?” Bertholdt asks. “No.”

“What’s this?” Reiner whispers, smirking at him. “Stage fright?”

“No.” He shifts under the blankets and tucks a hand beneath his pillow to lean on. “Well, maybe a little bit. I really don’t want to do it.”

“Ha, Bertholdt, you can’t be afraid of getting up in front of everyone else. You’re so tall, you do it all the time.”

“Shut up,” Bertholdt mutters softly. He hesitates. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Bert, if you’re having performance anxiety, you should see a doctor.”

“Shut up—“

“I’m kidding,” Reiner mutters. “You’re so sensitive sometimes.”

He rolls over, lying back to look at the ceiling. The blanket over him shifts as he flexes his legs down to his toes and pulls his arms overhead, stretching out his back. He drops them down with a sigh and cracks his knuckles.

“I don’t know,” he continues. “Thinking about it doesn’t bother me, but I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Bertholdt watches him. “What if you get up there tomorrow and it freaks you out?”

“Easy. I’ll just picture everyone in their underwear.”

“What?” Bertholdt whispers, wrinkling his nose. “How is that supposed to help?”

“It’s supposed to make you feel less vulnerable. You know, if everyone else is exposed, then it all equals out or something. It makes you less afraid.”

Easy, Bertholdt thinks, though there is nothing more exposed than being alone onstage. The spotlights bearing down, the curtains open to let you stand in front of the world. All eyes on you, waiting for something to happen, whatever it is. Waiting for the truth to reveal itself, and the judgment that will follow. Alone, exposed and vulnerable. 

Reiner glances at him. "Have you been having nightmares again?"

Bertholdt closes his eyes. "Not lately."

He thinks he'll have one tonight.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When all the lights are out, music will still move you. Poetry will still stir you. Theatre will still fill you to the brim with passion.”

Reveille sounds in the darkness. Somewhere across the compound, the day is beginning. First and second-year cadets rise from their bunks with shivers. They’ll run around the barracks, low candles lit as they tug on tall boots and thick sweaters, before embarking into the grey sunrise, dimly rising over the cliffs in the distance, a cold burst of morning air, another day, another routine. They’ll run, they’ll stretch. They’ll be charged their weekend chores, the laundry, the latrines, and they’ll look forward to their next day off, when they can sleep past sun-up, warm in their beds.

Bertholdt hears the bugle in his dreams. It plays like a distant song, the same every morning, carrying him somewhere over a green hill; a countryside for miles, summertime, with peach juice running down his chin. The sunlight warms his face. Children ride bicycles and linen sheets blow on the laundry lines. The grass lies somewhere on the other side in great green fields, if only he could see past the barbed wire fence. If only he could see over the wall.

He comes to when it’s still dark— the taste of sleep laying heavily on his lips. Then he’s awake, and a chill rushes through his body.

He lies still. He can only hear himself at first, just his breaths, his heartbeat, until the dim cabin comes into focus. Someone groans across the room. The other toss in their bunks, tuning out the bugle with pillows over their heads. None of them will sleep much past dawn, not even on their day off, not even with bruises strapped across their bodies, their limbs sore and aching. They’ll close their eyes and keep the shades low, but once the day has broken, they won’t be able to dream again.

Bertholdt rubs a hand over his eyes. His chin brushes the top of Reiner’s head; he’s curled halfway over him with his pillow clenched to his stomach, his head bumping against the wooden divider between bunks. He yawns. His blanket slipped off in the middle of the night, and he curls his bare toes, cold in the crisp morning.

Reiner hisses. One of Bertholdt’s feet is caught up under his shirt.

“Sorry,” Bertholdt mutters. He crawls back down from where he ended up in his sleep and lies drowsily next to Reiner, who fights the urge to open his eyes to the day. He lies flat on his back with his arms sprawled idly across the bed. His face tightens at Bertholdt’s cold touch, and even more when the cabin begins to wake around him, early risers crawling off to the showers.

“Are you awake?” Bertholdt whispers. It’s still dark, but he can read Reiner’s profile in the grey.

“No,” Reiner mumbles. He shifts, his eyes squeezed shut. “You were keeping my head warm. Do it again.”

“You have a blanket,” Bertholdt manages to mutter through a yawn.

“Not the same. You’re like a furnace.”

He wonders how long they’ll lay about this morning. They might pretend to sleep, hoping the dull gray day will pass them by for a little while longer. But one more hour is the most any of them will get; the compound is busy, with other cadets running about, with orders being barked and bells being rung. On this day, especially, they’ll find it hard to sleep in. It’s not a free day anymore, not really, and earlier than usual, the bunks begin to alight with noise: cadets fumbling out of bed, lighting candles, peeking behind window shades to see if there was a fresh snowfall overnight.

Bertholdt curls up with his blanket again. Sleep lingers heavily in his mind. He drifts off again easily, but it only lasts for a few minutes before the barracks grow too noisy. A pale morning sun is rising over the room, and there seems to be a silent agreement that they’d all rather be wrapped up in their sweaters and eating something hot for breakfast.

“So, come out with it,” Ymir says. “How many of you are going to sing and dance just for a good grade?”

She glances around the breakfast table with an eyebrow raised, but the cadets in front of her seem to be content to eat their porridge in silence. The rest of the mess hall rings with gossip and laughter, the rest of the third-years clamoring in conversation. They’re all thinking it, even if they don’t want to talk about it. It’s the question everyone is asking, now that the time has come to get onstage in front of their friends— is this all just a joke, or should they really try?

Christa says nothing, delicately buttering a piece of toast, so Ymir turns to Reiner, who’s too invested in his breakfast to answer, and to Bertholdt, who knows better than to meet her eye.

“Oh, come on,” she exclaims after a prolonged silence. She narrows her eyes at Reiner and Bertholdt. “You two love kissing up to Shadis, but you can’t be good at everything. Are you going to embarrass yourselves just to stay on his good side?”

Bertholdt glances at Reiner, who shrugs and says, “It’s just like any other class,” a nonchalant sentiment that Bertholdt wholeheartedly disagrees with.

“Seriously?” Ymir mutters. She digs around in her oatmeal. “He’s just using us.”

Reiner shrugs again. “So?”

“Did you actually come up with something to perform?” Bertholdt exclaims, glancing at him.

“Of course. That was the assignment, wasn’t it?”

Bertholdt flicks his gaze back to Ymir, who rolls her eyes and turns away to her breakfast. Last night, when they teased Connie about his singing over card games, they’d all been in agreement that this theatrical exercise was just a joke— Shadis was making a fool out of them, and none of them had any obligation to take it seriously. On the contrary, to take it seriously meant being the butt of the joke. Bertholdt had planned on sitting in the back and avoiding being called onstage at all costs.

But the mood in the mess hall this morning is much lighter; something has changed. The third-year cadets brim with energy, something giddy leaping inside of them. Even if it’s all a joke in the end, that doesn’t mean they can’t have fun with it. It’s something different to do, something to disrupt their days of lessons and drills and runs. Bertholdt’s stomach turns at the realization. He stares into his porridge, suddenly feeling sick. Of course they’d all want to participate, if Reiner did. 

Reiner nudges him. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”

The night left no fresh snow, and the cadets’ boots stick in the mud on the road into town. Ice from days past has melted, making the trail slick beneath their heels, staining their civilian slacks with mud. Their pack moves down the road together, a stark sight of dark green against the snowy fields of the valley. They wear their uniform sweaters and capes over their clothes; for most of them, the winter uniform is the warmest clothing they own. They talk on the way into town, a certain trepidation bubbling among them; but more than anything else, curiosity burns, one that warms their hands when the cold wind blows and spurs them forward, wanting to know more.

The village is alive in the midmorning. The cadets stand out for their green capes, and eyes lay on them when they come through the main square. But the day is too busy for any villager to care for too long about the soldiers in their midst. They carry on with their business, bustling through the town. The water well backs up with traffic, children carrying buckets the size of their bodies. Shopkeepers welcome customers into the warmth of their stores, and the market flurries with farmers selling eggs, milk, jerky, anything that will last for the rest of the winter. It will be a long one, they say.

Mikasa leads the group per Shadis’ directions. The cadets squeeze down narrow cobbled streets, ducking beneath laundry lines. The town becomes a maze, and the pack weaves back and forth down alleyways and side streets until finally, they funnel through a covered corridor to come upon the town’s beloved theatre.

At first glance, the theatre is less than impressive. Paint peels from the exterior walls, and the front door squeals so loudly the entire town must hear. Inside, it becomes clear that the theatre must have had a previous life as a stable; the cadets file in, silence falling over them as they take it in. The dirt floor is strewn with long, uneven benches, and the failing roof has let in last week’s snowfall, which is still melting onto the seats. The makeshift stage, constructed haphazardly from spare lumber, dips and warps in odd places. The whole building sits unevenly, with inconvenient columns and walls jutting out at wrong angles, where horse stalls and wash stations once stood.

From the front of the group, Eren glances back. “You’ll be right at home, Jean.”

Any bristling argument is cut short by an impatient huff from the decrepit stage, and the cadets turn to the man who hobbles towards them, descending the stage steps with great difficulty. His cane seems ready to snap under the pressure he puts upon it, and several cadets step forward, looks of alarm flashing across their faces. From across the room, he waves them off and shakes his head.

“No, no,” he cries through a wheeze. “I’m not that old!”

He is red in the face when he reaches them at the back of the theatre. He smiles at them as he huffs to catch his breath. He peers at them over the rim of his half-moon glasses. Bertholdt tries to shrink, the uneasy feeling of being read sweeping through him.

“Welcome,” the man proclaims once he’s caught his breath. “I’ve been expecting you for some time now, soldiers! You’re late. I hope this isn’t a promise of what’s to come.”

“Better than coming early,” someone mutters, and a hushed giggle stirs through the group.

At the head of the pack, Mikasa turns to the man and says politely, “You must be the director.”

He beams at her. “Oh, well, yes, I do fancy myself as such! Although it’s been many a year since I’ve directed anything other than our simple Solstice Festival. But I suppose if that’s what the kids are calling me these days, I must accept!”

He chuckles. The cadets hum half-heartedly.

“Let me have the great honor of officially welcoming you to our humble theatre,” he continues, raising one arm to gesture widely. “Humble is the right word, I’m afraid, but, well, theatre is an art of the heart! Not of the coin. We could do with a wealthy patron or two, but— never mind all that! I am, as your classmate has deduced, the man charged with staging this production every year. Such a special time of year, for everyone to come together in celebration— but you all know this already, of course.”

He blinks at them when they stay silent. “No? Most of you come from Trost, don’t you? I imagined you would be familiar.”

Sasha glances around at the other cadets. “Oh, no, some of us are from, um, elsewhere. Like the midlands.”

“Ragako,” Connie offers. “That area.”

“Up north,” Reiner says.

“Shiganshina,” Mikasa adds.

The director blinks at her over the rim of his glasses. “Oh. Oh, dear. That’s dreadful. Don’t bring that up again.”

He shakes his head. “Yes, well, it’s really no matter in the end. You’re never too old start embracing the fine arts! Spread out, soldiers, let me get a good look at you! That’s it, fan out. I need to know what I’m working with!”

The cadets shuffle away from each other, bemused, and he scans them, raising his head to peer through the crowd. After a moment of observation, he clicks his tongue.

“A dismal looking group,” he dismisses with a sigh. “Your commanding officer warned me not to expect much from you in the artistic sensibilities. And now that you’re all here, yes, I can see exactly what he meant.

“Nevertheless,” he exclaims, “this is what I have to work with! I’m sure we can come up with something. Very well, let’s see what you can do. You’ve all prepared a little something, yes? Take a seat, soldiers, and we’ll get right to work.”

The cadets scatter across the small theatre, sticking to their friends and exchanging whispers. They sweep the benches clear from snow and sit in huddles, most of them steering clear of the first few rows, the hot zone. Bertholdt eyes the benches in the back, but he is deterred by Reiner, who nudges him forward despite his best protests, and they take a seat in the second row, a huddle of girls filling in behind them. Bertholdt spares a glance around the rows before sinking into his seat to disappear; the cadets’ curiosity has waned into giggles of bemusement that drift into silence when the director waves for their attention from the front of the room.

“Now, for the uninitiated in the room,” he announces, leaning on his cane, “the Solstice Stage Festival is a great tradition respected in this region of Wall Rose. It is a time of joy! A time to celebrate life and find meaning in art and feeling, when the rest of the world has gone dark. When all the lights are out, music will still move you. Poetry will still stir you. Theatre will still fill you to the brim with passion.”

He glances at them. “Yes?”

The cadets look at each other.

“Yes, of course,” the director continues. “And that, soldiers, is why we celebrate the stage during this dark midwinter. Now, you understand that you have been recruited for this assignment as back-up, because, as you may imagine, we only have time so many solo acts, and our more experience performers, some of whom have been performing at this festival for their entire lives, well, naturally they’ll take the prime slots in the show. Of course, I’ll take as many of you as I can! I could use a few more bodies in the final number, and a few of you to play some non-speaking roles here or there, and well, the rest of you can tinker about backstage.”

The director peers at them. “Very well! Who’d like to begin?”

Stiff silence settles over the cadets as they refuse to meet the director’s eyes. Bertholdt sinks a little lower in his seat, as quietly as possible, sparing a glance up at Reiner; he seems unmoved by the stage fright falling over the room, but he doesn’t volunteer either. Instead, he cranes his neck to look over the benches, and Bertholdt knows who’ll be the first up.

“Come now,” the director calls, raising his voice. “Don’t be shy! You’re soldiers! One of you’s got to be brave enough to lead the way. The first audition is the lucky one, you know!”

“Connie just said he’ll go first,” Reiner calls out.

From the other side of the room, Connie whips around, leaning past Sasha to hiss at him. “What the hell? No, I didn’t!”

“Oh, bravo,” the director says. “Where are you, Connie? Come down where I can see you!”

He jumps out of his seat and stalks down the aisle, throwing Reiner a glare as he passes. “Fine, I’ll go first, just to show you all how it’s done.”

The director gives him a clap on the shoulder as he heads to the stage. “That’s the spirit! Tell us your name and your talent before you begin.”

Connie bounds onto the stage, his scowl splitting into a bright grin once he’s facing the audience. Onstage, standing heads and shoulders above the rest of them, with the grey sunlight shining on his face through the open roof, it’s suddenly obvious that he’s terrified now that the moment has come. Sweat shines on his forehead despite the cold, and his smile shakes as he finds his place onstage and introduces himself.

Reiner stifles a laugh, a hand over his mouth. Bertholdt digs an elbow into his ribs.

“Oh, c’mon,” Reiner mutters, glancing down at him. “He’s been dying to show off for us.”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if that were you,” Bertholdt mumbles.

“I’m Connie Springer,” Connie announces onstage, his grin still perilously wide, “and uh, I’ll be singing _The Ballad of William Henry.”_

The director leans back in his front row seat, his legs spread wide to accommodate his cane and portly stomach. “Ah, a classic from Wagner! You’re a little too short to play the dashing William Henry, aren’t you, young man?”

Connie’s grin freezes. “Huh?”

“Never mind, never mind!” the director exclaims, shaking his head. “Don’t let me discourage you from trying, young man! Now, a quick note for all the singers in the room, there’s a piano under that canvas over there, stage right, but, well, it’s a bit of an old thing and none of you play, I assume. That’s just fine, we’ll get on with a cappella. Off you go, soldier!”

Connie flushes. “Right, okay. Let me just…”

He clears his throat, and then he begins to sing. _The Ballad of William Henry_ is a classic, as the director has put it, and the cadets have heard it from Connie before; for most of them, before that too, as the old song remains a tavern favorite in villages throughout Wall Rose. They know he can sing it, and delightfully so: with hand and foot keeping the beat, timed better than his uneven steps when running, with a natural instinct for the rhythm, the song flowing easily from within him; sometimes, kicking up a spontaneous dance in the canteen beneath candlelight after dinner.

But even from where Bertholdt sits in the second row, he can read the grimace on the director’s profile. Most of the cadets are wincing too; they have heard Connie belt more times than they can count, but alone onstage before them, with no beat or guitar or dancers to tap out the tempo, the pressure wears on him. His voice shakes as he stumbles through the ballad, and each verse trips over the one before it.

The song finishes in lame silence— no toe tapping on the stage to keep a count, Connie’s voice trails off with a squeak. Before the director has even taken a breath, Connie has slunk off the stage and back to his seat, red in the face. A round of pity applause stirs through the cadets.

“Yes, well,” the director sighs without turning to face them. “That’s no matter, we’ve already got plenty of singers in the show. Maybe we should bring out the piano after all. It seems we might be in dire need of it after all.”

“Oh,” someone pipes up, and heads turn to Marco, who raises a hesitant hand. “I can play actually, so I can just do accompaniment if that’s what you need.”

“Excellent!” the director cries. “Yes, well done, young man! Head over there and yes, just dust if off! It might be a little out of tune, but that’s alright, we’ve all already had our ears damaged.”

“What?” Connie hisses. “Why didn’t he volunteer before? Why did I have sing all by myself?”

He yowls when Ymir kicks the back of his seat. “That’s what you get for not knowing how to shut up.”

“Oh, you—“

Christa springs up from her seat and scurries to the stage. “I’ll go next, if that’s alright. I’m singing too, although I don’t think I’m really very good.”

The director waves her on. “Excellent, excellent! Yes, let’s keep it moving, soldiers! Go ahead, young lady, and give us your best effort!”

She sings _The Nightingale_ , a song of spring, and with Marco tapping out accompaniment on the piano, the song becomes something of a true performance. Christa’s voice wavers, and she goes so soft on high notes that the cadets lean forward in their seats to hear her. Bertholdt remains slunk back in his seat, discomfort bubbling up in his stomach with every passing second, as the dreadful moment when he’ll be pushed onto the stage draws closer; on the other side of the room, so does Connie.

Murmurs pass through the cadets at Christa’s plainly pleasant voice. She has barely sung through the second verse when the director raises his cane and waves it wildly, the piano falling out as she trails to a premature end, her eyes wide.

“I’ve heard enough,” the director exclaims ecstatically. “I have the perfect role for you, young lady! I’m afraid we’re a bit full up on solo singing acts, but there’s a soprano part in the ensemble number at the end that we’ve been desperately looking to fill— thought we were going to have to put one of the village boys in a wig— and there’s not much to it, I’m afraid, but you’ll play the part perfectly! Welcome to the show!”

He turns in his seat to smile at the cadets. “How exciting! Only two auditions in and we’ve already found our ingenue! And you, piano boy— yes, what was your name?— Martin Bock, accompanying on piano! What a wonderful surprise this has turned out to be! I admit, I was discouraged when I first laid eyes on you, soldiers and some of you are—“ His gaze lands on Connie. “Well, yes, you know what I mean. Let us carry on! I’m sure there are more hidden treasures to be found hiding among us!”

The show goes on. Ymir follows after Christa, though she doesn’t last long onstage, as her talent turns out to be a giddy roast of whomever catches her eye in the audience, and the director has to personally ward her offstage with his cane while the cadets fail to hold back their laughter. The ones who come after at least make an effort. Though of them show great talent that inspires the director to make room for them in the show, there’s plenty of fun to be had. Sasha blows herself blue in the face playing the harmonica, and after her, Franz and Hannah attempt a country dance together, though they seem lost in their own world onstage, tripping on each other’s toes and forgetting every other step.

There are a few more songs, a dance or two, and a handful of poems staggeringly recited from memory. By midday, Bertholdt’s hopes have risen that he will be able to disappear entirely by simply not volunteering, but the pit in his stomach sinks again when the director suddenly turns to choose someone at random.

“Young lady in the back,” he calls out, squinting down the aisle. “My, you’ve got a cold stare! I’m sure there’s something very talented hidden under that frowning face. Come and show us! Yes, up you get!”

Someone snickers. Bertholdt sits up just enough to glance over his shoulder, peering through the group of girls whispering behind him, and to his surprise, Annie comes down the aisle from her seat in the back. With her hands in her pockets, she solemnly climbs the steps to the stage. Bertholdt glances around at Reiner, who seems equally dumbfounded.

“Nice to see you in the light,” the director says, leaning forward on his cane. “What will be you demonstrating for us, soldier?”

From her pocket, Annie whips out a knife— and a block of wood.

“I’m whittling,” is all she says.

The director barely gets another word out before Annie sets upon the small piece of wood, the knife moving swiftly in her practiced hands. She shaves it with expert precision, working so fast that the cadets cannot keep up. In a matter of seconds, she is done. She holds up a small wooden rabbit without a word.

“Goodness,” the director utters after a moment of silence. “Extraordinarily impressive, though it’s not very exciting to watch onstage, I’m afraid. Nevertheless, a champion effort! Thank you, soldier.”

Awkward applause rolls through the audience. As Annie heads back to her seat, she chucks the rabbit at Reiner’s head.

“Ow!” he hisses. He rubs the pink spot on his forehead. “What the hell? She threw it at me!”

Bertholdt plucks the tiny wooden rabbit from where it landed on the floor and holds it up to the light. “I didn’t know she could do that.”

He barely gets a glimpse of its face before Reiner smacks it from his hand, and the rabbit goes skidding across the room, landing somewhere in a bank of unmelted snow on the floor.

He sits upright. “Hey. I wanted to keep that.”

“It wasn’t that good,” Reiner mutters, and Bertholdt flops back into his seat, slinking out of sight again.

Next to the stage is a group of girls local to Trost. More familiar with the spirit of the Solstice Stage Festival, they have fashioned themselves overnight into a dance troupe, and with the a cappella chant of their voices, they spin into a synchronized square dance, their skirts and braids twirling as they dance around each other, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in time with their movements. The director sits perched on his seat for the entire performance, stars in his eyes. Naturally, the group is admitted into the festival with their traditional dance. Then it is Eren reluctantly taking the stage after them— a hard act to follow, the director is all too keen to remind him, although Eren’s failed attempt at juggling would have been disastrous no matter what. He leaves the stage grumbling, and then it is Armin’s turn. He opens his audition with a statement of protest that the cadets are not being adequately prepared for their final exams because they’re not technically following the curriculum. No one else cares, as most of them are all too happy to exchange classroom studies for running props backstage. The director is particularly uninterested, and Armin is the second to be caned from the stage.

Mikasa comes onstage next. She gives her name, and for a moment, she looks like she is about to announce her talent too. Then the faintest pink blush falls across her face, and she simply offers to help with costumes instead. Jean leaps from his seat to volunteer too when the director gives his approval, but he is instead coerced onto the stage by a triumvirate, who are undoubtedly tired of his grumbling: Marco, who points out, loudly, that Jean should sing for his audition; the director, who gleefully demands that he perform at once; and Connie, who shoves him down the aisle with a hiss in his ear that it looks like he is a singer after all.

“A strapping young lad like you should never be afraid to show off your voice,” the director exclaims when Jean drags himself onto the stage. “There’ll be plenty of time for everyone to pitch in a little backstage, but we must not let a good performer go to waste! What will you sing for us, soldier? Something dashing? Something heroic? _The Boy from Wall Maria?_ Or perhaps— _The Fields of the Westland Moor!_ A wonderful song!”

“I don’t know either of those,” Jean grumbles.

“Oh, very well. Let’s have another go at _The Ballad of William Henry_ then. Yes? Someone of your stature could play that role very well!”

Connie utters an audible, “Fuck me, I guess.”

Bertholdt becomes aware of the girls sitting behind them, the square-dancing troupe, whose whispered commentary he has managed to ignore for most of the morning. But they barely bother to keep their voices down when Jean steps into center stage, tossing a glare to Marco on piano, before he starts uncertainly into another rendition of _The Ballad of William Henry_. It’s the same old song as always, and Jean starts on a rocky note. But he stands taller into the second verse, as if emboldened by the sound of his own voice, which would not surprise Bertholdt, who grows surlier by the second as he realizes they’re missing lunch back at the compound. It becomes apparent, as the song continues and the director lets it, that Jean can carry a tune after all, and a strong one at that. A bit of an arrogant tune, but with the kind of brashness that such a heroic ballad requires.

The ballad dashes to a triumphant end— the only song so far allowed to be sung in its entirety, and it leaves the cadets with a mild case of shell shock, as they sit back in their seats and wonder how long they’ve managed to let Jean get away with this secret for so long.

“What a performance!” the director cries. He leans forward on his cane. “I can tell you’re not a particularly practiced singer— yes, a bit pitchy on the high notes and the piano got away from you once or twice, but— brilliant, soldier, excellent! I think we can certainly find a place for you in your esteemed show!”

“What?” Connie yells from the back. “It wasn’t that good!”

“Look,” the director says, waving a nonchalant hand over his shoulder, “not all artists are meant for the spotlight. We have plenty of backstage roles to be filled.”

“I don’t really want it,” Jean says shortly. “Connie can have the part.”

The director shakes his head. “Nonsense! I’m the one who makes the casting calls, and I’m giving the part to you. I wouldn’t count on a solo, not with the number of singers we already have, but, yes, well, I’m sure we can work something out!”

He turns to scan the cadets as Jean heads back to his seat, earning double-fisted middle fingers from Connie. Bertholdt fixes his gaze on the empty bench in front of him. He feels Reiner watching him, and he purses is lips, writing a silent curse inside his head. He would not put it past Reiner to volunteer him too. He would bet on it, especially this far into the auditions, when Bertholdt will be noticed sooner or later. But there are others who have not taken their turn yet, so if he can hold out for a little longer, then maybe he can get away with disappearing after all.

Reiner slides down into his seat until he’s eye to eye with Bertholdt, and he whispers, “He’s going to see you.”

Bertholdt’s stomach growls. “He might not.”

“Well, he’s going to hear you.”

“Shut up.”

“C’mon, Bert, just get it over with.”

“Why don’t you go?” Bertholdt asks, glancing sideways at Reiner. He furrows his brow. “You’ve been sitting here very patiently. What are you waiting for?”

Reiner shrugs. “The right time.”

“The right time for what?”

Reiner nudges him. “Just go up there and do something stupid. It’ll give everyone a good laugh.”

“I wish I had thought of that earlier,” Bertholdt mumbles. Every talent has already been taken; he should’ve stuck with his gut and come up with something bad on purpose.

“I can thinking of something stupid for you,” Reiner offers.

“No, thanks,” Bertholdt says, but he is too slow, and before he can blink, Reiner is upright in his seat, his hand waving in the air.

“Bertholdt would like to go next,” Reiner shouts.

He throws himself at Reiner’s hand, all the blood in his body rushing to his face. But even after he manages to wrestle Reiner onto the bench, hand pinned behind his back, it is too late. He looks up to find the director peering at them curiously over the rim of his glasses.

“Onto the stage then, soldier,” he orders. “What’s your talent, young man?”

Bertholdt opens his mouth.

“He does a comedy routine,” Reiner yells.

The cadets snicker with laughter. The director beckons Bertholdt to his feet— first with an encouraging wave of his hand, and then with a furious glare when Bertholdt doesn’t move. He finally stands, but not before shoving Reiner’s face into the bench as hard as possible, which only earns him a slap on the backside as he walks past and another spurt of laughter from the cadets. The director, unfortunately, seems to take this as a promising sign of comedic talent. Bertholdt swallows the thudding of his heart and reluctantly takes the stage.

All eyes land on him.

Bertholdt stands center stage. He is farther back than the director likes, and he is beckoned forward twice before he is told that’s good enough. Winter sunlight fades in through the open holes in the roof; dim and grey, but light nonetheless, and he feels it on his face when he stands at his mark, trying to think on his feet. From up high, everything looks different. Everything is quiet, and for a moment, the only thing he can hear is his own breathing.

The director clears his throat. “Young man, a comedy routine usually includes jokes. Do you have any of those?”

The cadets giggle, and Bertholdt bites his lip.

“Not really,” he says lamely. “I think I’d be more useful backstage.”

“Nonsense!” the director exclaims. “I appreciate all the enthusiasm for props and costumes, but everyone must try their hand at something! Come now, surely you can think of something to show us!”

“Um,” Bertholdt says. “I can do some card tricks.”

The director brightens. “Oh, a magic show! Is that what you mean?”

“Oh, no, I meant more like, shuffling. But—“

“Do you have a deck of cards? That’s alright, I always carry one with me. Just in case I ever meet a traveling magician, like in _The Tale of Sing-Song John!_ Any of you ever heard that classic? Where’s the soldier from the midlands? She might be familiar. Yes, tell your classmates that fabulous tale when you get the chance. Go ahead, young man, take the cards. My word, you’re tall!”

Bertholdt takes the cards. He splits the deck into two and shuffles them, discreetly aware of the silence in the room. The eyes on him, the trick that he doesn’t actually know how to do. He presses the deck single-file against his palm.

“I’ve only really done this once or twice,” he says. “Um, you just—”

He attempts the trick, the cards moving in a wave from one hand to the other in a smooth shuffle. Or at least, that is what it’s supposed to look like; but his hands are sticky, and when he does it, the cards slip out place, and half the deck goes flying out of his hands. They splatter across the floor. Someone in the crowd starts a slow clap.

Bertholdt glances to the director. “I think I’d be better off backstage.”

“Yes, yes, very well. Pick the cards up, young man, and hand them back to me. We could surely use you backstage on the curtains!”

The director turns to the cadets, slouched in their rows of benches, as Bertholdt hurries back to his seat. He squints at the soldiers, peering through the aisles.

“There can’t be that many more of you,” he says. “Which brave soldier will take the stage next?”

Bertholdt catches his breath. The bench creaks, and he glances up— Reiner is standing.

“I think it’s my turn,” he announces. The cadets’ gazes turn on him, eyebrows raised, curious looks exchanged.

“Very good!” the director exclaims, settling back into his seat as Reiner takes to the stage. “What will you be performing for us, soldier?”

Reiner finds his mark, center stage. “I’ve prepared a monologue.”

The director clutches his cane. “Oh, how exciting! We’re overflowing with aspiring sings in this town, but not many an actor! At least not this far from the city. A man of the stage, I see! Maybe you’ll inspire some theatrical talent in this town, or perhaps in your comrades. Like an oxen you are with those shoulders! You and your friend, I think he’s about as tall as you are wide. Alright, young man, take a moment to step into character, and then let us hear it!”

The theatre trembles with hushed laughter. Bertholdt stays low in his seat, still wiping the sweat from his palms. He glances around at the cadets, and they seem to be in silent agreement that Reiner has been fooling them all along. He’s made idiots of them all by convincing them to take part in this production, getting onstage and performing silly talents, and they giggle, waiting for him to reveal his long game.

Bertholdt turns his gaze back to the stage. A silence falls over the audience as they wait for Reiner to begin. It pulls on Bertholdt, tugging on his brow, his heart, as he watches quietly, Reiner’s face turned down to his feet, his mark where he stands, as the clouds shift overhead and the dappled winter sunlight grows a little bright, a little stronger, moving in like a strange, godly spotlight to shine on him.

All eyes are on him, and when he finally looks up, his face is changed. He opens his mouth. Everything else disappears.


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the trail seems longer than Bertholdt remembers. Sometimes it seems to wrap around the trees forever, and he is not sure they will ever make it to the other side.

Bertholdt lights the last of the lanterns. He carries the starter candle carefully and passes its flame to the others, each in its little glass house. The rusted metal frames have seen better days. But with his back to the rest of the theatre, the little corner with its dancing flames seems a small, comforting sight. Something gentle and familiar, like quiet on a winter’s eve, a reminder of somewhere cozy and warm. Somewhere very far away.

The wax drips onto his hand. When it falls, it goes in thick white ribbons, and it lays thickly across his knuckles, sending a searing burn through his skin. He bites his lip and watches the wax begin to cool.

“Did you burn yourself?” someone asks from his elbow, and he can barely glance back before one of the village girls is beside him, taking his hand carefully to inspect the injury.

“It’s fine,” Bertholdt says quietly.

“Don’t be so brave. Here—” She scoops a handful of icy snow from the ground and packs it onto the back of his hand. “When it cools, you should scrape it off. Do you want me to do it?”

“No,” he says. He takes his hand back, moving gingerly. “Thanks.”

She seems to hum, clutching to her own candle as she watches him, blinking up from below his shoulder. Bertholdt stares into the flickering flames; he wonders what will happen if he stands rooted here all night, staying safely out of sight in the small corner of the theatre.

She leans forward. “I’m working on the costumes.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s nice.”

“What will you be doing? Are you in the show?”

“No,” Bertholdt says. He pinches out the flame of his candle, the light vanishing from the girl’s curious eyes. “I’m just doing what I'm told."

The theatre is brighter when he turns back, a ring of lanterns lit to see them through the evening rehearsal. But it is no less confusing— chaotic, as cadets and villagers clash. The squad of soldiers marched here in the dark after dinnertime to meet for the festival's first rehearsal, and though the director is keen on making peace between the two parties, the tension in the theatre is palpable. It seems to have come to the surface tonight after weeks of spats in the village streets, and as the playbill is distributed to the performers, the director becomes embroiled in a battle with his players. Phenomenal singers, he has repeatedly told the cadets, but apparently with tempers to match.

The soldiers' small band of successful performers stay huddled together as a handful of villagers argue with the director over the playbill he's written: who'll go first, who'll go last, and who will take the death slots in the third quarter of the show when the audience is falling asleep. The others make rounds through the theatre with tape measures and brooms, counting inches for costumes and sweeping the last of the snow from the seats. It will snow again before the show, but for now, the benches will stay clear. 

Bertholdt returns his candle and picks up a broom. He sticks to the sides of the theatre, sweeping the narrow aisles at the end of each row. The others do the same, keeping clear of the stage as the disputes are grudgingly settled and the rehearsal begins: singers, actors, cadets, running lines and humming warm-ups, as the director beckons them to the stage. The townspeople, Bertholdt notes, have been doing this for years. They know where to stand, how to speak, and they're practiced, whether it's song or dance or poetry. The cadets in the show are, on the whole, less gifted. 

He passes Connie at the back of the theatre. He stands in the center aisle, a broom gripped between both of his hands, a scowl on his face as he stares at the stage— not at the village singer taking notes from the director, but from the performers waiting in the wings. Jean and Marco among them, one waiting for his turn, the other settling into the piano to play accompaniment. His stare darts to Bertholdt when he passes. Bertholdt keeps sweeping, but something about the frenzy of the theatre seems to stir conversation in people, and soon Connie is following him, sweeping uselessly where Bertholdt has already cleaned a clear path. 

"This is a waste of time," he grumbles when Bertholdt says nothing. "Don't you think so?"

Someone onstage belts a high note. Bertholdt reaches the other side of the theatre, where the aisles and seats have already been cleared of snow, and he stands in one spot, sweeping at the same icy remnants with his broom in silence. Connie mutters something else, complaints under his breath. Whether he's genuinely concerned about their lack of real community relations training, or he's just griping about not being admitted into the show, Bertholdt doesn't know. But he's being incessantly annoying. 

They're beckoned away from their brooms by a burly man carrying a thick rope over his shoulder. He stops short before them, looking them up and down, then jerks his head without a word and leads them backstage. It's dark without the generous candlelight of the theatre, but just as busy; the dancing troupe of cadets stretches their legs on the far wall, making a timid friendship with a pair of tiny village girls with holly in their hair. A costume station bustles, seamstresses pulling old garments for inspection, taking measurements, and barking orders to their newfound cadet lackeys. Mikasa darts around the performers waiting in the wings to take their measurements; Eren and Armin serve as clothes hangers. 

The man with the rope leads Bertholdt and Connie to a back corner, where a stack of round mirrors bigger than their heads lies dusty and abandoned. He brushes off the one on top with his hand, peers into it, and then kicks a bucket of rags towards them.

"Mirrors need to be cleaned," he says gruffly, before he disappears through an impossibly skinny door and they hear him climbing the creaky wooden stairs to the space above the stage.

Connie toes the bucket. "Great."

Bertholdt gets to his knees and takes the first mirror from the stack. They could use more than a dusting, but he sets about the quiet work without complaint. Connie takes another and blows a layer of dust from its surface.

"The mirrors are for the spotlight," he says as he begins to clean. "You can rig up a system to reflect lantern light so it doesn't burn anyone's face off when they're onstage."

"I gathered that," Bertholdt mutters to his reflection.

"I wonder where they got these mirrors cut. We don't have anything like this in Ragako— well, we do, but our mirrors aren't this nice, they're just the kind that people have laying around their houses. Whatever we can find. I wonder if that guy would tell me."

"Somehow, I don't think so."

"Yeah, you're right. Nobody wants us here. The director's nice— I mean, he's whatever. But nobody else would talk to me, I bet."

"No, I mean," Bertholdt says, "some people just don't like conversation."

Connie sits back against a wall, pulling the mirror into his lap. "Oh. Yeah, I guess that's true. I don't know why though, it's not like any of us have anything better to do. He's probably just up there setting up all the ropes and pulleys. We're just down here, cleaning mirrors. I wish I knew how to sew. The costume people are definitely having more fun."

Bertholdt thinks some of them might beg to differ, as they begin to crumble under the weight of the dusty costumes being hung from their arms. But he chooses to hang his head and focus on cleaning the mirrors. He wipes his rag in a slow circle, around his dark reflection. A quiet face, as Connie continues to ramble beside him. The underbelly of the theatre's lighting rig looms like a weight above his head. The ropes, hanging from the rafters, falling just behind Bertholdt's neck.

A pair of eyes appears in the mirror. Bertholdt starts. Behind him, Reiner comes closer, his boots creaking on the wooden floor as he approaches; his reflection wavers strangely in the mirror, angled halfway across the frame, his face falling into the shadows of the ropes.

"Well, well," he chirps, standing over Bertholdt. "I hope they're putting you guys to work back here! Trust me, you've got the easy job."

"Oh, piss off, Reiner," Connie grumbles, wiping furiously. "You should be watching your back, you know. I still haven't repaid the favor for that snowball."

"What are you gonna do?" Reiner asks. His reflection grins. "Misdirect my spotlight?"

"Maybe," Connie mutters. He scrubs harder at a spot, his brow pulled tight. He sits back, the tension in his face easing into something more like curiosity. "Where'd you even find that monologue? You don't know anything about theatre."

"What do you mean?" Reiner exclaims. "I'm a great actor."

"Bullshit. You've never set foot on a stage in your life."

"Look, Connie, it's just like the director said. Not everyone is made for the spotlight, and I guess I'm just—"

"For fuck's sakes," Connie mutters. He rolls his eyes and turns back to his mirror. "Whatever. You and Jean may be the ones in the show, but I'm the only one who understands what it means to be on the stage. We all know it."

"Oh, yeah? Then how come you flopped your audition?"

"Because you made me go first!" Connie exclaims, popping upright. He lands right in Reiner's headlock. The mirror slides from his lap, and with a sharp intake of breath, Bertholdt reaches over just in time to save it from crashing onto the floor. 

"I'm just messing with you," Reiner laughs as Connie fumbles from his grasp. "I'm sure you're a great singer."

"You heard me! You know I am."

"And Bertholdt," Reiner adds. Bertholdt leans back, glancing up as he braces himself to receive a noogie too, but instead all he gets is a smile, staring down at him. "You know, you can do anything you set your mind to."

From the stage, someone calls for the next act. Reiner straightens up and glances over his shoulder. Triangles of shadow fall over his reflection, folding his face into semi-darkness. He turns back after a moment, and his gaze flicks to Bertholdt's mirror. Their eyes meet, dark to light. Bertholdt's chest tightens. He has to look away, when Reiner stares into him with that strange blank look on his face that Bertholdt is beginning to recognize.

"Well," he hears Reiner say after a beat. "You two have fun back here. Honestly, it's probably more fun than I'm having. The director's kind of got a stick up his ass."

"Yeah, whatever," Connie sighs, dropping back to the floor. "We'll see you later. Franz and Thomas wanted to play cards tonight, if you think you'll be up for it."

Bertholdt dares to glance into the mirror. Reiner is still looking at him, the shadows of the rafter hung across his face.

"Yeah, maybe," he says. He turns away. "I'll see you later."

His reflection disappears, but still Bertholdt waits for another moment before glancing over his shoulder to see if Reiner is gone. He's vanished, at least as far as Bertholdt can see. The chaos backstage has been refined into something more orderly as the cadets and villagers begin to find their roles working together; they mark up costumes and rummage through old props, and the performers cue in the wings, waiting for their turns to take notes from the director. He can see Christa waiting, making polite conversation with some of the townspeople, and Jean, leaning coolly against a prop wall before it slides out from under him and he stumbles. But Reiner is gone.

He turns back to his mirror. Connie has taken his back, and he dabbles idly at its water stains with a rag.

"You should be more careful with these," Bertholdt says. "They're probably expensive."

For the first time all night, Connie smiles. "Why don't you just clean them by yourself then? You know, you can do anything you set your mind to, Bertholdt."

Bertholdt purses his lips and moves onto the next mirror.

"But really," Connie says after a moment, turning to Bertholdt as his smile fades into puzzle, "what's Reiner up to?"

Bertholdt shifts the mirror out of his lap, setting it on the floor so it reflects nothing but the ceiling, the darkness that hangs over them in silence. "I wish I knew."

In the deep midwinter, the days are shorter. The light leaves too early, and the cadets spend much of their days in the dark. Around candlelight, they find ways to entertain themselves— card games, ghost stories, and now the stage festival. Anything to bid the darkness away, until spring can come again.

But everything else is the same, and sunrises and sunsets begin to blur together. Where one night ends, a morning follows, and Bertholdt too. Every evening, he is left in the darkness, and every morning, he wakes only to do it all again. Everyday the same, running on a trail through the woods. Snow melting at his feet, silence ringing overhead in the trees. Bertholdt keeps a count in his head, the last line in the pack of cadets as they traverse the barren landscape of the valley. He keeps his breaths even, and he runs. He counts, one, two. Forward no matter what. Night and day, on and on.

Reiner runs beside him. Every morning, on the same path. From the night, they rise and step into the forest together. Every day, the same. Every day, the sunrise just a golden line of light on the edge of the cliffs behind them, just a glance between the trees that surround them. Sometimes the trail seems longer than Bertholdt remembers. Sometimes it seems to wrap around the trees forever, and he is not sure they will ever make it to the other side.

Sometimes he wonders if it is really Reiner running beside him. Callous smile, an ill-timed step. Off the trail, ankle deep into the snow, and a hiss, stumble, back on the path. Still on count, because Bertholdt is beside him. Still on the trail, because he has no other path to follow. Still there, if he is there at all.

The night turns to day turns to night, and as the light gets lower across the land, preparations for the Solstice Stage Festival are underway. In the coldest time of year, the villagers honor the stage as a source of warmth. For them, it is a light in the dark, and they spend their nights redressing the theatre for the most important day of the year. By the second week of rehearsals, the theatre is hardly the same one the cadets stepped into for their auditions. The stage, once decrepit, creaking on every step no matter where one stood, has been stabilized and polished; the roof, falling in on itself, has been cleared to create an open-air theatre; and the rest of the shabby room seems lighter once the glass lanterns are lit, once the thick red curtains are dusted, and the benches are full of townspeople waiting for rehearsals to begin.

Community relations has been more difficult. A few hesitant friendships have bloomed; the girls from the dance troupe have been joined by two more from the village, and Marco's piano accompaniment has endeared him to many of the local singers who've had to perform a capella in the past. But on the whole, the close proximity of cadet to villager has not done much. Tensions remain icy. More than once, Bertholdt steps backstage on the director's orders and is met with sullen silence from the villagers working there. He keeps his head down.

The others do their best to avoid conflict, but it is not an easy task with so many strong personalities. The stage, it seems, attracts a certain kind of person, and the villagers have no problem making their feelings known. The cadets keep smiles on their faces at all times, no matter how strained. They're not certain the director isn't reporting back to Shadis, and if they're really getting graded for their involvement in the festival, then they have to make nice. Or at least, pretend, something Jean and Connie are finding increasingly difficult, not only with the aloof villagers, but with each other as well.

Bertholdt retreats to the rafters. The burly man with the rope seems to understand his reluctance to get involved, and he gives Bertholdt orders to rig the lights and curtains from above. It's quieter, away from everything else, away from everyone's eyes, and he lets himself get lost in the solemn work: fixing the curtains to run more smoothly across their tracks and tying solid knots in thick rope to fly props and scenery across the stage. 

From above, he watches Reiner. 

His footprints on the stage. His hand gestures, and the way he speaks. How he's never quite still when he's taking notes from the director, his heels bouncing in his boots. The tension in his shoulder when he reaches the penultimate verse of the monologue, the few lines where he can't quite remember the words. How he reaches out with one hand, and even from above, Bertholdt can imagine the way his face screws up with concentration, his brow furrowing tighter as he grows more flustered with every passing second, a kind of frustrated the other cadets have never seen before. The kind that Bertholdt sees in his dreams every night.

"No, no, not like that," the director exasperates again from a place in the audience where Bertholdt cannot see. "It's a love story, young man, not a menu at the local tavern! You have to mean it, I have to feel it! Dig deeper, into your heart, and think about the words! What do they mean? What lies between them? What is our hero feeling in this very moment?"

Bertholdt watches from above as Reiner stalls.

"Well," he says, his words faltering. "He's— he's sad, because—"

The director sighs. "Alright, alright, let's take it from the top just once more, and then we'll wrap for tonight. We'll have to do some character work on this tomorrow."

As the rehearsal winds down, Bertholdt descends from the rafters. He squeezes down from the tiny set of spiral stairs, and at the bottom, the man with the rope is waiting for him. He gives Bertholdt a curt nod.

"See you tomorrow," he says gruffly.

Bertholdt blinks at him. "Oh, yeah. See you tomorrow."

Backstage has grown quiet, the seamstresses and prop runners already left for the night. A handful of village singers have stayed to work on a difficult part of the ensemble number on the far side of the stage, and from the wings, Bertholdt can see the rest of the cadets, waiting to go home, barely holding back yawns as the director drills Reiner through the monologue again, despite his promise of _just once more_. Connie sits on the floor backstage, his back against the piano, and he glances up when Bertholdt comes down.

"What do you do up there all night?" he asks, his brow furrowed. "How much rope could that guy possibly need tied?"

Bertholdt slides down against the wall and sits with his arms wrapped around his knees. "I'm doing more than just tying rope."

Connie sighs. "Well, it's been boring as shit down here. Turns out they don't really need all of us backstage, so they're having to invent tasks for us to do. I spent most of my night refolding playbills because they weren't _exactly_ right."

From the stage, Reiner barks a nervous laugh. Bertholdt can hear the agitation in his voice. He cranes his neck, but he can't see past the curtain.

"I can't listen to much more of this," Connie groans, his head falling back against the piano. "I can't take much more of this show at all, actually. I almost wish we'd volunteered to scrub toilets instead."

Behind them, the stage door opens. Someone shuffles inside with snow in their hair and a box of playbills in their arms. He turns, and when he stops in the doorway, his dark eyes darting between Connie and Bertholdt, Bertholdt recognizes him: the boy from the village, the one Connie nearly fought last week. His gaze stays on Connie a little longer, and Bertholdt is about to say something polite to deescalate the tension, when Connie glances over at him and gestures to the boy.

"Hey, Bertholdt," he says drily. "You remember Timo? From the other day."

Bertholdt glances up. "Oh, hi."

Timo shuffles past them and dumps the box of playbills by the piano. "Hey."

"He's in the show," Connie says sourly. "He's a singer."

"Oh," Bertholdt says. "That's nice."

"Yeah," Timo mutters. He shakes the snow out of his dark hair and tears his gloves off, glancing past the curtain to the stage. "How long have they been at this one monologue?"

"A while," Bertholdt mutters. 

"Damn," Timo mutters to himself. "I had a question for the director."

He drops his gloves onto the piano, before turning back around, though he seems to look anywhere but at either of them. A long beat of silence passes, before he finally sighs, fidgeting, and glances up. 

"Look, just to clear the air," he says shortly, "whatever happened the other day, you know, whatever. But if you're all going to treat this show like some kind of joke, then we don't really need you here."

Connie glances sharply at him. "What? We're taking this seriously."

Timo scoffs. "Yeah, right. Okay."

"Hey, I know all about stage festivals," Connie exclaims, sitting upright. "We have one in my hometown every year! I was always in them. It's not my fault I'm stuck backstage doing grunt work."

"Yeah, well, grunt work is what brings the whole show together. If you've done one of these before, you should know that."

He crosses his arms. "I know you guys are just here for a grade, and you've got some good performers, but this festival's really important to our town. People look forward to it all year. So please just take it seriously, okay?"

He must be about the same age as them, Bertholdt thinks, but in the dim light backstage, something about him seems younger, softer. Maybe it's just the quiet plea he makes with his eyes as he glances to them, a little hurt, a little defensive, and more than a little ready to fight for what matters to him. Connie raises his eyebrows, but then he shakes his head and leans back against the piano.

"Yeah, okay," he mutters. "We'll remind the others."

Bertholdt nods too. Timo eases back, his round face falling into the shadows, and his shoulders relax. He glances again at whatever is happening onstage, before turning back to them, and in unison, the three of them realize in uncomfortable silence that they're going to have to endure each other in polite company while they wait. 

Timo sinks to the floor on the other side of the piano, and after a few seconds of silence, he clears his throat. "So, where are you two from?"

"Ragako," Connie says instantly. "You've probably never heard of it."

"I have," Timo says, and if anything, Connie looks disappointed. "On the other side of Trost? What are you doing all the way out here?"

"This is where they send you when you enlist in Trost," Connie answers, stretching out his legs. "It's the only training compound in the area. There used to be another one on the other side of Wall Maria."

Timo falls quiet, something coming over him. Connie glances away too, his lips pursing into a thin line, and Bertholdt drops his gaze to the wooden floor between the three of them, his eyes coming out of focus. Backstage, it's quiet, but they can hear low chatter from the audience, every creak of the stage as Reiner takes his steps onstage. It's the same everywhere they go; when people talk about the fall of the wall, it's always the same— just silence. 

Another moment, before Timo looks up again.

"The last few years have been hard for everyone," he says softly. He hesitates before continuing. "My aunt was talking to some of your classmates. They said they were from Shiganshina. I can't even imagine..."

Bertholdt keeps his gaze on the floor, but he feels Connie's eyes dart to him. The story he and Reiner tell the others— they've hardly repeated it to anyone since their first year, when word got around quickly between the cadets, about where they've been, what they've seen. They've never needed to repeat it. Connie stays quiet, glancing away just as quickly, but Timo catches the look, and he jerks his head up, looking to Bertholdt.

"Sorry," he says shortly, a flinch in his eyes. "That wasn't you, was it?"

Bertholdt swallows. "No. But I..."

He doesn't need to say anything else. Darkness stirs in Timo's eyes as they grow wide, and his expression changes, from deep concentration, to fear, to awe. He closes his eyes and turns his head.

"Sorry," he repeats softly. "I know no one likes to talk about it. I only brought it up because— it's been really hard in this area too. For the people around here."

He opens his eyes, but he stays sitting like that, his head turned to the side, his brow furrowed, his gaze lost. "We got a lot of refugees the day it happened. Karanese was being overrun. No food, no water. No space. So, people started coming here. And by the time the resettlement plans were made, a lot of them had already made homes here. You know, we were all a little hungrier, but we were able to get by. Our farmers harvested more that first season, with all the extra hands. They plowed more land. And people started to make new lives here.

"But, you know. There still wasn't enough to go around. We feed a lot of Wall Rose with the crops we grow around here, and there wasn't enough for everyone. The military resettled people. And by resettle, I mean... you know. Sent them to reclaim the wall."

He pauses for another moment, his words drifting away, before he turns back to Connie and Bertholdt.

"I know it wasn't you guys," he says. "You're the same age as me. We all know that, it's just that— it's hard, because this town lost a lot. Not just when the wall fell, but afterwards too. The military took a lot from us. People we loved. There are a lot of kids here without parents, because they weren't allowed to stay. They died to keep us alive."

He shakes his head and sighs. "It's stupid for us to hold that against you, but..."

"We all lost a lot that day," Connie says softly, and that is enough.

Timo looks up at him, a sad smile coming across his face, and they sit in silence for another moment, listening to the cadets chatter, the stage creak, a dog howl at the moon in the distance. Somewhere outside, midnight is rising over Wall Rose. The night, the day. On and on. 

"At least we can all agree on that," Timo says glumly a moment later. "I just wanted to say that, in case no one told you. You're not from around here. I didn't know if you knew what it was like. It's why this festival means a lot to us, you know? It's something to look forward to every year. And for some of the people in this town, the Solstice Festival was the last chance they had to enjoy time with their family and friends. Before they were taken away." 

The night is deep and black when the cadets finally head back to the compound. Bertholdt treads at the back of the group. With his cloak wrapped heavily over his shoulders, he stays behind the others. He follows their footprints in the snow. Christa walks with him from the village to insist that she should check the burn on his hand, but when she's satisfied that it's already healed, she disappears into the pack, another green cloak ahead of him, stepping into the night. 

Snow falls overhead, and though they are tired, the cadets dance on the road, catching snowflakes on their tongues. They'll be tired in the morning when they have to run the trail with just a few hours of sleep, but they'll do it anyways. They have no other choice.


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They know what's to come on the familiar obstacle course, but this time, they look to Bertholdt to lead them.

From below, the sergeant barks. "On your marks! Ready? Go!"

A gunshot eclipses his final word. Green smoke fires straight into the air. But the cadets hardly hear or see either, because as soon as their commander releases them, they are off into the woods. They spring into the trees, with 3DMG handles clutched between their cold fingers. Last night's snowfall sticks to the bottom of their boots as they take off, flying up into the trees, the hooks of their lines sunk into thick winter bark.

They fly away in four groups: two to the left, two to the right. The course through the woods is not just a race, but a trial of endurance, precision, and teamwork. The cadets who listen to their leader's instincts will be the ones to make it out of the woods first. 

Bertholdt springs up at the head of his pack. He flies forward, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at his comrades as they enter the woods. They fan out in a wing behind him, their blades already drawn. They know what's to come on the familiar obstacle course, but this time, they look to Bertholdt to lead them. Like the others, he knows the woodland course well. He can see it in his mind. He knows there are only so many obstacles to hinder them, and by this point in their training, Bertholdt is prepared to overcome any and all of them. 

He sucks in a sharp breath. "Let's go, guys! We've got this one!"

In the woods behind him, Connie lets out a holler. Wires whir and zip through the trees as their squad flies forward, ducking through leaves and under branches, dodging the fresh snowfall that sinks like sheets straight from the treetops. The plan of attack is simple: carry on, as quickly as possible, with as little conflict as possible. Don't go out of your way to take down a titan. Don't make rash decisions. Head for the target on the other side of the shady woods. Make it out alive. Make sure your teammates do too. 

The forest course is wide enough that the teams shouldn't get in each others' way. Still, Bertholdt gets a lump in his throat when he catches sight of the other right side team chasing past them like a blur through the trees. They're further ahead, already. They move faster than the other three teams, with Mikasa at the helm and Sasha as her second-in-command. They'll be quick, like lightning.

But they won't be able to keep up that pace forever, Bertholdt knows. They'll be slowed down by their other teammates; Reiner and Armin can't move as nimbly through the branches as their leaders, and if Mikasa picks a path too narrow, a trail too hard to maneuver, she'll lose her squad in the trees. Eren will hold them back too; he can keep up with her when he focuses, but he struggles to cut deeply enough to slice through the leather titan necks. One of the others will have to circle back to save him if he misses his mark. 

Bertholdt leads his team at a slower pace, but a steady one. They'll make up for it with their precision. He and Annie have higher accuracy with their blades than almost anyone else in the corps. Jean has enough endurance to run the course twice, swinging back to assist the others if needed. Connie is quick through the air, springing from branch to branch effortlessly. Mina has a solid head on her shoulders, quick judgment, and though Ymir holds back sometimes, she's skilled enough to keep up with the rest of them if she tries. 

The first target appears through the evergreen leaves. Bertholdt spies it just ahead of them. A nine meter type that they won't be able to avoid. With the skillset of their team, it's better to take it out efficiently than risk a flight maneuver that might send them scattering across the treetops.

He has hardly opened his mouth to give the command when Annie is suddenly at his elbow, breaking off from the pack with her blades drawn.

"I've got it," is all she says.

She drops away, coming down at top speed. The rest of the squad is flying over her when she hits her target, a one, two spinning slice straight through the rough, beaten leather. She hooks into a nearby tree and flies back into formation just as they pass overhead. Bertholdt gives her a quiet nod, and she falls back. 

The knot in his stomach tightens. He spares a glance over his shoulder; he can't let Annie take every titan that comes across their path, but the others— for all their strengths, they have weaknesses to match. They are risk factors: will they cut deeply enough? Will they watch for abnormal behavior? Will they be able to catch up if the squad has to move ahead? Speed and agility won't make any difference if he can't trust them to do the basics. 

Jean is serving as his second-in-command for the exercise. He won't give up without a fight, but he's weak-willed. He's only here for himself, and it shows, in the classroom, on the course. He takes shortcuts. He knows that he can get away with it, and he does, time and time again, choosing the easy way out, the path that lies just ahead. 

And Connie. Uncooperative. Spontaneous. Desperate to prove himself and live up to the expectations he has boxed himself into. So desperate to hold onto what he has earned so far. He doesn't get along that easily, not when his class rank is at stake. He won't let his teammates take an opportunity from him, even if it means disobeying orders.

Ymir could be in the top ten if she wanted, but Bertholdt's not sure that she does. She's undisciplined. She wouldn't know a real command if he barked it at her. Threw it in her face and made her spit it back out.

Mina, too, smart, but flighty when it comes to making choices. Out of all of them, she is the most likely to follow orders without thinking too much. But she is also the lowest ranked, the weak link most likely to make a mistake and put the whole squad in danger. 

Bertholdt meets Annie's eyes. Even her— whether she is predicting his orders or making up her own, she acts without command. That has always been her fatal flaw. Never one to listen to others when she does not have to. But then again, Bertholdt can't bring himself to correct her, especially not in front of the others. Especially not when she's right. 

"Hey, captain," Ymir calls suddenly from the back. "Rumor has it that you can do anything you set your mind to! So how about giving us some orders?"

Connie barks out a laughter as their squad swings through the trees. Bertholdt turns his gaze forward again, his stomach knotting up. He's been too quiet already. The course may be simple, the same one they've been drilling every week for the last three years; but the squad expects more from their leaders. They'll want instructions to stay put or take action, and they'll want to know why they're putting their lives in danger. Why should they listen to him, of all people? What has Bertholdt to offer them?

In his periphery, he sees another titan moving through the trees. A hulking wooden frame, a twelve meter type this time, the model that Shadis likes to sneak around the course to throw them off their aim. It's not in their path. They can easily avoid it, unlike the last one, as long as they maneuver slightly to the right and stay high near the treetops. 

A wire whooshes past Bertholdt's ear, and Connie goes racing towards the left wing.

"I've got this one, captain," he calls to Bertholdt.

"Huh?" Jean exclaims from the second line. "Hey, he didn't say to attack! Get back in formation!"

"I've got it!" Connie exclaims as he zips away. 

Bertholdt glances sideways. "Connie, wait!"

He is already gone, tearing off through the trees. Bertholdt grits his teeth and hisses; fall back, fall back. He slows, sending the hooks of his 3DMG wires straight into two nearby trees to bring himself to a near crash landing on the side of a tree. His gear whines. It's a strain on the gas supply to turn and stop so suddenly. His boots have barely touched down on the tree before he hears Connie swear somewhere through the leaves, and his stomach curls up into a tight knot.

Jean lands on a branch just above him. "Idiot. I told him not to go off on his own. Want me to go help him?"

"No," Bertholdt exclaims. He glances around for the rest of his squad. "Um—"

"I've got it," Annie says, and then she is gone too.

"Hey," Jean exclaims, waving his blades as she flies by him. "Hey, hey! Where is she going?"

Bertholdt lowers his blades with a sigh. "She'll take care of it."

Below them, Ymir zips lazily by, swinging around the base of the tree. Her hooks lands in the wood just beneath Bertholdt's feet, and she lets herself hang from the tree, horizontal to the forest floor. She leans back with her arms over her head and yawns.

"We're taking a break?" she calls. "Good call, we wouldn't want to get too tired in the first two minutes. Smart move, captain."

"We need to regroup," Bertholdt says, his gaze fixed in the distance.

"Yeah," Ymir mutters. She lets her head fall back, closing her eyes. "No shit."

Bertholdt purses his lips. He glances up at Jean, who is still watching him, waiting for orders, and then at Mina, who lands uneasily on the tree opposite them, slower than the others.

"I need you guys to start listening to me," Bertholdt says. "We can still finish this in good time."

Jean furrows his brow. "I've _been_ listening! It's those two who need the lecture."

"Yeah, where are they?" Mina asks, glancing around. "Did we lose them?"

"They're just over there," Bertholdt says. "Taking care of a titan. Let's get back in formation so we can regroup with them."

"Shouldn't we go see if they need help?" Jean asks. "It shouldn't be taking this long."

"I'm sure it's fine," Bertholdt says.

Ymir snorts. "How can you be sure if we don't go to check? Maybe Annie's taking Connie out for being such an annoying dickweed."

"It's fine," Bertholdt says.

"Honestly, I wouldn't complain," Jean mutters. He kicks a sheet of snow off the branch and sends it cascading down Bertholdt's back. "Shit. Sorry."

"Are you sure?" Mina calls from the other tree. "I can't hear them anymore. Maybe the titan's led them away."

"If the titan's led them away," Ymir interjects, "they'd be stupid as fuck to follow it. It wasn't going to bother us anyways. I don't know why he went after it."

"It might've come for us," Jean says. 

"No, it wouldn't. Shadis never sics that twelve-meter model on us. It's too expensive."

"Should I go see if they need help?" Mina asks, raising her blades.

"No," Bertholdt exclaims, shaking snow from his hair. "We shouldn't— I don't want to split up the squad anymore than we already have. I'm sure if we just get back into formation and keep going, they can catch up to us." 

"Smart," Ymir says. "Let them both get eaten for not following orders. I like the way you think, captain."

"I don't mean it like that," Bertholdt says, glaring down at her. "They both know what they're doing. They can catch up to us."

"Sure," Jean mutters drily. "Connie knows what he's doing. That's why Annie had to go save his ass again."

Bertholdt readies his gear to take off. "Let's fall back into formation. We can still make up for lost time."

Ymir huffs. "I'm telling Shadis you abandoned two of your teammates."

He glances back into the trees, at the silent place through the leaves where they disappeared. "Well— do you guys really think—?"

Zip, zip, zip, and from the trees below, Annie flies up towards them, Connie hot on her heels. They're coming through at top speed, and they have to stop themselves, pulling back on the gear, their gas cans squealing, as they come to a sudden halt beside the rest of the squad.

Annie lands just above Bertholdt. "Why are you guys just standing here?"

He flushes. "We wanted to make sure—"

"We thought for sure you'd gone on without us," Connie exclaims from overhead. "C'mon, we could've totally caught up to you guys! We're wasting time."

Bertholdt takes a deep breath and sets his eyes back on the course. "Okay, okay, fall back in formation. No more detours!"

"Ooh," he hears Ymir mutter from below. "Yes _, sir_ _."_

With all six teammates back together, the squad regroups. Bertholdt takes off in the land, an uneasiness growing inside of him. His teammates fly behind him, reforming their wing. It's a simple course, one they've run hundreds, if not thousands, of times, but if he can't trust his squad to listen to him, they'll never finish in time. The rest of the run is straightforward, if they learn from their mistakes and listen to Bertholdt. That is, if Bertholdt can keep them in line. His eyes dart from tree to tree as they move steadily onward. They can make up their lost ground if they keep going at this pace. 

The next titan that come across their path is a measly six-meter. Bertholdt gestures over his shoulder for Jean to drop below the squad and finish it; a gesture that goes unseen until it is too late, and he has to shout for everyone to look out, sending the team flying above the treetops to avoid the danger below. He swears when they regroup again. Jean bellows an excuse, one that Bertholdt does not hear, and the next titan they encounter, he dives to take out himself. 

He cuts down— throws himself towards the forest floor along a line of wire and spins out in precision. Elbows tucked in, arms close. Pressure in the forearm, not on the wrist. His blades slice through the leather neck in one clean line.

Just a few minutes later, they've reached the three-quarter point of the course and a green smoke signal fires over the treetops in the distance. Bertholdt's heart sinks into his stomach as they fly forward. He didn't realize how much time they had wasted on individual team members taking out the titans. He should have delegated more, instead of leaving everything to him and Annie.

"Nice job," he hears Jean call gruffly behind him. "You let Mikasa's squad beat us again!"

"Shut up!" Connie yells back. "Someone had to take out that titan, and I didn't see anyone else doing it!"

"No one had to do it! It would've left us alone! You'd've gotten us all killed if this was real!"

"Piss off, Jean!"

"You better thank Annie for saving your ass back there! Your assists are the only reason you're even in the top ten!"

"Oh, please, you're only where you are because you're such a kiss-ass!"

"All of you," Bertholdt yells back over his shoulder, "shut up!"

The squad simmers down, their voices falling out to leave nothing behind but the sounds of wires whipping through the trees and Ymir, who mutters a low, "Finally."

"We're nearly to the end," Bertholdt calls. "Let's just focus on getting there, alright?"

No response from the squad. Somehow, their silence relieves Bertholdt. He leads them to the end of the course without further trouble, and when they burst out of the forest, the snow-covered cliffs shine in their eyes, reflecting a rare winter sun that peeks through the clouds. Shadis waits for them on horseback, and Mikasa's first-place squad is there too, sitting idly in the snow. Bertholdt is mollified for a moment, knowing that his team likely came in second for both speed and kill accuracy, but the third team zooms out of the forest just seconds behind them. A minute later, the final team finishes. 

Twenty-four soldiers line up to receive their reviews. Team captains stand at the head with their hands behind their back. For a moment, it seems the sun might stick around; but as Shadis circles the soldiers on foot, the sunlight retreats, a grey sky drifting over the land. Shadis shakes his head at them. 

"Disgraceful," he sighs. "Only Ackerman's squad performed up to par. The rest of you managed to make even the most basic mistakes."

"Hoover," he says. "You let your team members take unnecessary risks, putting their lives in danger for nothing. How would you feel if Springer had been snatched by that 12 meter titan? Would that make you feel accomplished as a squad leader, watching one of your comrades be eaten alive?" 

"No, sir," Bertholdt says dutifully.

"No?" Shadis repeats, glowering at him. "Are you telling me you weren't trying to get your entire squad killed?"

"No, sir."

"That's certainly what it looked like to me. I'd piss myself if i was assigned to your squad."

He leans in. "Isn't that right, Hoover? All of your squad members would piss themselves if they knew they had to serve under you?"

"Yes, sir," Bertholdt says. "All of my squad members would piss themselves."

More than one cadet snickers. A bold move, considering the mean streak Shadis has had during their final year of training, in what must invariably be a torture method to toughen them up for the taunts they'll receive as rookies in the field. His glare flicks over to someone in Mikasa's squad.

"I don't know why you're laughing, Braun," Shadis barks. "If Hoover was in charge of you, you'd be changing your pants for entirely different reasons."

It's little less than a howl that explodes from the cadets at that; they fall silent again when Shadis adjusts his glare on them, but he says nothing about the outburst, seemingly exceptionally pleased with himself. Bertholdt keeps his eyes fixed forward, a lump in his throat.

"You're lucky you've got such a fan club, Hoover," Shadis continues, glancing down at his report. "Leonhart was almost singlehandedly responsible for taking out the titans in your path. A phenomenon that anyone in Bodt's squad would have been divinely blessed to experience..."

He moves on to the judge the third team, and then the fourth. Bertholdt's squad places second out of four, but just barely— points deducted for dallying and putting themselves in danger. It's just practice. At this point in their training, a few points will hardly make a difference to anyone's final scores. The top ten have been secured for months. Bertholdt doesn't care much about the ranks either way, but he still gets a sinking feeling in his stomach when his squad places second. Below the best. Below Reiner.

"Let's run it again," Shadis orders. "Some of you still need your asses handed to you. Same squads this time. Those of you on the ground, switch with someone in your team so you can have a turn to operate the course. 

"And new captains," he adds. "Braus, take over from Ackerman. Yeager will be your number two. Bodt, switch commands with your second. Lenz, you two. And—"

His steely gaze lands on Bertholdt.

"Hoover," he barks. "Again. This time, try to mean it." 

The teams regroup. They fill up on gas and switch out dull blades. Bertholdt trudges back around to the starting point, letting out a deep breath. They'll run the course in reverse this time, back along the trail through the same breadth of the woods; but the obstacles won't be the same. Shadis will make sure the ground crew throws something new at them. It gets more challenging with each run. By the time the exercise ends, they'll have exhausted themselves. He's been known to throw in a mock abnormal to test the third-years, sending a squad of cadets flying in tight formation to attack at will.

Bertholdt knows all the formations. He's studied them. His squad should be leading the rest. Maybe this time— with Sasha as the captain now, and Eren as her second-in-command, the A team will be less capable. She moves too spontaneously for her squad to follow. 

His team tracks behind him, quiet as they adjust their gear to prepare for another run. He can feel Jean watching him, and after a moment, he seems unable to take the silence anymore. 

"He's only doing it because he knows you can do better," Jean blurts out. He crosses his arms and tries to appear nonchalant. "You're one of the best out there when we do individual trials. He knows you can do better."

Bertholdt glances sideways at him. "Oh. Um, look—"

"It's just the truth," Jean says. He purses his lips. "Mikasa and Reiner are— they're really good, but they're not perfect. No one can be good at everything. But as far as I'm concerned, you're pretty far up there."

"Oh," Bertholdt says, blinking. "Thanks."

"You're still ranked number two, that's all I'm saying," Jean says bluntly. He shrugs. "You're just as good as either of them. I'm sorry you got stuck with this shit squad who doesn't let you give any orders." 

"Hey," Connie protests, but Ymir comes up behind him and delivers a swift elbow to the back of his head. _"Hey!"_

Bertholdt lets his gaze fall away. "I'd really rather just focus on doing the course again. We can do better this time."

"Jean's right, though," Ymir says, plopping onto the ground. She undoes one of the thigh straps of her gear and starts tugging at it to pull it back into place, glancing up at Bertholdt. "Shadis is just being a dick. He has to do it to someone, and you deserved it after last round."

"Thanks," Bertholdt mutters with a sigh.

"He puts way too much emphasis on scouting training anyways," Connie exclaims with a shrug. "Just because _he_ was a Survey Corps lunatic, doesn't mean the rest of us are going to be."

"Speak for yourself," Ymir says. "Bertholdt may be contemplating suicide the Eren Yeager way."

"No way," Connie exclaims, whipping around to look at Bertholdt. "You're going into the Military Police! Tell me she's joking."

"She's joking," Bertholdt says, glaring at Ymir. He picks at a scratch on the handle of his 3DMG. "But look, you guys don't have to try and make me feel better. Shadis is right. I should've been more decisive."

From behind the other three, Annie draws one of her blades. She holds it up to the sky to examine it, then brings it close to her eye to wipe off a spot. She glances at Bertholdt.

"You need to speak up," she says. 

Bertholdt blinks across at her. 

"You already know what to do," she says. "You just have to tell us. Give us a reason to listen to you."

He hesitates. "Are you acting out on purpose?"

Something flashes in her eyes, and she turns back to her blade. "I just work better alone. I'm not _testing_ you or anything."

You are, he wants to say sourly, but he turns away, trailing his squad up to the starting point where they fan out in formation. Bertholdt at the head of the pack, Jean and Connie behind him, with Annie, Ymir, and Mina bringing up the rear. The ground squad heads into the forest to take their positions maneuvering the titan models, and while they wait for the signal to take off, Bertholdt sucks in a breath and turns back to address his team one more time. 

"Please listen to me this time," he says. "I'll give orders, but I need you guys to follow them."

Ymir guffaws. "You could at least say it like you mean it."

Bertholdt clenches his jaw. "Fine. Shut up and pay attention."

"Alright!" Connie exclaims, drawing his blades. "That's the Bertholdt I'd like to see more of."

"And you," Bertholdt says, glancing at him. "Take that chip off your shoulder. You're not special."

Connie's smile fades. "Uh."

"And stop yelling at each other," he says, glancing between Connie and Jean. "Your arguments are stupid and I'm tired of hearing them."

"What?" 

"Tell us how you really feel," Ymir calls from the back of the squad. She holds her hands up when Bertholdt raises an eyebrow at her. "I get it! I'll follow orders."

He fidgets, drawing his blades. "Sorry. I didn't mean— just follow my orders, okay?"

Connie throws up a lazy salute. "You got it, cap'n."

Overhead, the sky grows white. By the time Bertholdt's squad emerges at the other end of the course (with full marks, the first ones out, and Bertholdt breathes a little easier), a thick snowfall has begun to drift silently over the valley. It falls in heavy white flakes, the promise of a cold night to come, but it doesn't keep the cadets from running the rest of their drills. The team leaders switch out, and the exercise begins again. They practice until they can barely see through the darkening forest. Shadis throws everything the course has to offer at them: mock abnormals, or an overabundance of titans in their path, or a fake emergency that he uses to test their reflexes. One team gets stranded in the woods after running out of gas, and the entire class endures admonishment. 

It's not a punishment. By no means, have they failed the test. In year three of training, there's not a cadet among them who couldn't succeed on the regular course. But the regular course is merely memorization. The real world cannot be replicated so easily.

The sun sets, and the cadets rush to the showers before dinner. Bertholdt takes his time undressing in the steam room outside the showers, the heat slowly coming over him and the bruises on his body. He folds his uniform carefully, meticulously, and from inside the shower room, he listens to a conversation.

"I don’t even want my score back,” Connie exclaims to Marco, his voice raised over the splash of the showers. “I spent so much time studying, and none of it was even on the test! I’m screwed.”

“The study guide wasn’t that practical,” Marco concedes. “But I’m sure you did fine, Connie. You should give yourself more credit.”

A sigh. “Yeah, let’s hope so. Reiner, how do you think you did on the logic exam?”

“Fine,” Reiner says. “I didn’t think it was hard.”

Bertholdt pictures him sitting there like he does, on the wooden bench in the center of the room, his hair mussed from the shower, a towel around his waist as he holds his uniform up to let the steam seep through it. He'll fold it only on certain edges, a tight bundle that could pass inspection. Like Bertholdt does, or maybe neater. He'll get annoyed if Bertholdt leaves a sweater hanging from their bunk.

Connie grumbles. "Of course you didn't."

The cadets file out as the warm water dries up, heading to dinner. One or two of the showers is still running, someone humming in the peace and quiet, and Bertholdt grabs his towel to head inside. He's not surprised when Reiner heads him off at the doorway, steam in his eyes. He could feel Reiner lingering around the corner, waiting for him.

His dark eyes dart over Bertholdt. "Bert. What are you doing, creeping around out here?"

Bertholdt glances away, rolling his eyes. "Speak for yourself."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," he says. "I'm just headed in."

"Just now? What've you been doing?"

"Nothing." He gives Reiner a look. "Excuse me."

"What?"

"Can you let me through?"

"Oh, sorry," Reiner says, though he does not step aside. His face stays flat, but his eyes shine. "I thought maybe I'd push you up against this wall and give you a hickey."

Heat flushes through Bertholdt. A smirk tugs at the corner of Reiner's lips.

"Just kidding," he says softly. He raises one eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather I join you in the shower."

"Reiner," Bertholdt mutters, glancing away.

"You could help me practice my monologue. I always feel so inspired under the hot water, don't you?"

"There's not going to be any left if you don't let me through," Bertholdt says. He fidgets, one of his feet slipping into a cold puddle of water on the steam room floor.

"Oh?" Reiner leans forward. "Is that a yes?"

"No," Bertholdt says. "Can you move?"

The smirk fades. He turns his face to the side and rolls his eyes. "Alright, Bert, I'll leave you alone. You don't have to be such a dick all the time, you know."

Heat. Tight breath. He mutters, "You're the one being a dick."

"Oh, sorry, what was that? Come on, the least you can do is say it to my face." Reiner rolls his eyes again when Bertholdt just glares at him. _"I'm_ being a dick. You're unbelievable. You haven't said a word to me in three days." 

"Because you're being a dick," Bertholdt mutters. "Move, Reiner."

His eyes narrow. "Make me."

Bertholdt's throat clenches. _"Move_ _."_

The door swings open and hits Reiner in the back. He swears, glancing over his shoulder at Jean, who nearly gets hit in the face with the door swinging back towards him. He catches it just in time and glances between the two of them.

"Sorry," he says bluntly. "What the fuck are you two doing? Can you move?"

Bertholdt steps out of the way, muttering an apology, and Jean brushes past. When Bertholdt looks up, Reiner is still there, rooted in the same place, but his eyes are wide, and he stares at Bertholdt, something lighting up in his gaze. 

"I was just kidding," he says after a moment. He blinks. "I don't know what..." 

He closes his eyes. When he looks back up to Bertholdt, he blink with a slight shake of his head. 

"I feel like we haven't been hanging out much," he says, his voice clearer. 

Bertholdt drops his gaze. "Well, you've been busy. It's fine, Reiner. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm..."

He is still shaking his head when Bertholdt looks back to him. "I'll see you at dinner. Maybe you can help me practice my monologue later."

"Yeah," Bertholdt sighs. "Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the kudos & comments so far! we're reaching the midpoint of the story, but there's still a lot to come, so stay tuned!


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You cannot forget the words in front of the audience, soldier. You must press on through the verse, even if you do not know what comes next. You must do _something.”_

The cadets' footprints are long buried by the time they arrive in the village. Snow has been falling over the valley for the last two days, and for most of that time, the cadets have been confined indoors. One's fingers can only get so cold before 3DMG becomes impossible to use properly, so they've been huddled in classrooms, tucked into their thick green sweaters, reviewing exam scores and practicing sutures. They slump in their seats while listening to lessons; then they spend their nights stuck in the barracks, inventing new card games to keep themselves entertained. 

The stage festival, which was once a chore for the cadets, becomes their only release during the heavy snowfall. For once, it's them pleading with Shadis to let them run off to the village every evening for rehearsal. It's the technical rehearsal, they insist, nearly on their knees. It's very important. It's community relations. They couldn't possibly miss it, not even in bad weather. 

Bad weather is subjective, Bertholdt thinks, as he hurls another snowball at the back of Jean's head. The village is just a short walk from the compound, but it's an exhausting one that night, as the snowball fight never ends; the cadets dodge and duck and loose snowballs at each other, hoping they hit their targets. Even in the dark, with just the light of their lanterns to guide their way, there's a giddiness among them. Snowfall. Freedom. An evening of doing something other than sitting inside and listening to each other complain about being bored.

"For the last time," Jean exclaims, shaking snow and ice from his hair. "I'm not part of this! I'm trying to get in the mood for rehearsal!"

"You're with us," Connie says, slapping a snowball together in his gloved hands. "You're part of this."

The theatre, too, has come to life. Performers scurry through the aisles, tugging on their partly-finished costumes: wide hoop skirts, jackets without sleeves, and some of them, with the seams of their clothes all stitched up in pins, to be hemmed and fitted by the end of the night. There's no moonlight; a canvas tarp has been pinned across the open ceiling of the the theatre to keep out as much snow as possible, though it still wisps in around the edges. The bigger picture begins to come together for the cadets. The little glass lanterns lining the edge of the stage, the red velvet curtains that have been dusted free of mothballs, and moreover, the excitement in the air. The whispers of actors mumbling lines to themselves, the hum of singers absentmindedly practicing their songs. The air is dizzy with anticipation. Even Connie, who may forever remain bitter about his poor audition, seems to let go of everything else tonight. The festival spirit is too strong to resist. 

The cadets filter into the small theatre, taking their places as they prepare for the technical rehearsal. Their performers disappear into the crowd at the front, and Bertholdt finds himself mingling quietly with the crew members he's gotten to know over the last few weeks. The man with the rope, Frederick, gives him a clap on the shoulder, and Lena, who tended to his burn last week, sidles up to him again to make pleasant conversation. Bertholdt is grateful when he hears a _clunk clunk clunk_ and looks up to see the director hobbling onto the stage with his cane, waving a playbill over his head to draw everyone's attention towards him. He smiles widely when the theatre falls quiet.

"Thank you, thank you!" he calls, the playbill still waving. "Everyone, please, take a seat! We'll begin the rehearsal shortly— dreadfully exciting, I know! But first, I wanted to say a few short words."

The theatre bustles as everyone finds a seat. The women in hoop skirts shuffle around before deciding to sit on the floor, and one of the performers, a man with a jingly jester hat, disembarks from a pair of stilts to plop down in the front row. The backstage crew fill in the rest of the seats, with tape measures and paint brushes in their hands. Bertholdt files in next to Connie, who sniggers when Lena squeezes in beside him. 

Onstage, the director tucks the playbill into his breast pocket and rests both of his hands onto his cane, leaning forward to smile at the gathered cast and crew. His half-moon glasses slip down on his nose.

"Thank you," he echoes, his voice softer in the silent theatre. "Thank you all for being here tonight, and for being here every night before this one. You've shown such dedication during a difficult time, and, well, you know what they say, don't you? It takes a village, after all!"

A chuckle rings through the audience. Bertholdt becomes dimly aware of Lena's knee pressing against his.

The director sighs, his smile fading a bit. "What a challenging year this has been! Our summer fête, untimely ended by the drought that required our utmost attention to overcome. The cabaret at the fall fair, too! Struck down before it even had a chance of success. Too many hands in other places! Too many problems to solve, and not enough time to devote ourselves to the arts as we would all have liked! Not our usual theatrical season by any means. But then again, who can say what is usual anymore?

"Still," he proclaims, "we carry on. We persevere through all the hardships, continuing on our never-ending quest for triumph. And we've been extraordinarily lucky this winter to continue the wonderful tradition of the Solstice Stage Festival, and in no small part to the help of the young soldiers who sit with us here tonight!"

He turns his gaze upon the cadets in the audience, his smile growing. "What a surprise this has been! How serendipitous for us to meet in midwinter, the most tumultuous time of year. When the winds are changing, and the moonlight is strange and blue— how fortunate for us! And how lucky, that we have been able to uncover such hidden talent among your group."

Two rows ahead of Bertholdt, the lantern light glimmers in Mina's dark hair as she twists around in her seat. She sits with the rest of the dance troupe, their locks in plaits for the rehearsal. She turns to Annie, who sits just behind her, her feet propped up on the back of Mina's bench.

"Are you sure you don't want to do the dance with us?" Mina whispers as the director continues his speech. "It's a lot of fun!"

She cocks her head with a convincing smile. "We could still teach you. It's not hard to learn, and I'm sure the director would let you join us if you wanted. Please?"

A pause, then Annie gives a small shake of her head. Mina frowns. She turns back around in her seat, and though she hardly moves her head, a whisper of gossip seems to flurry through the rest of the girls, who do a poor job of concealing the looks they throw over their shoulders at Annie. 

Lena leans forward, her brow furrowed at Bertholdt. She whispers coldly, "Do you know her?"

He keeps his gaze fixed on the stage. "Um."

"My dear cadets, my fellow villagers," the director continues, his speech crying out over the theatre, "I know the relationship between our two towns has been estranged of late. Yet how poetic that we may come together through the art of the stage. I can name many a great story that begins with two households divided— and I pray that we, as they did, may end our tale with unity!"

He pushes up his glasses, chuckling. "Though I would hope with less bloodshed!"

A laugh ripples through the villagers, and the cadets glance at each other with raised eyebrows, accepting the allusion they will not understand. Connie breaks into a grin when Lena abruptly stands and stalks off. 

"Shut up," Bertholdt mutters before he can say anything.

"And now onto the show!" the director shouts with glee, earning a holler from the audience. "What a wonderful collection of talents we have in this room tonight! What a magnificent show of passion! Let us all put our best foot forward now and give it our all! Players, you'll be learning your spotlight marks tonight, and if you haven't already been to Mrs. Kremser for your final fitting, please let her attend to you!"

He raps his cane onto the stage. "Let us commence!" 

The theatre explodes with a flurry of activity. Players spring up and run backstage, to sing scales or recite lines or take their marks for the opening acts of the show. The crew find their places as well, heading to different spots around the theatre to take up the lights, the props, and everything else that must be done to make the show go on. Bertholdt meanders backstage with the crowd, then climbs to his place in the catwalks above the stage, where he'll operate the fly, a rig of ropes and pulleys to lift curtains and lights across the stage. Below, everyone takes their places, and half an hour later, the rehearsal begins. 

In its entirety, the stage show is not that long; but just running through the first handful of performances takes an hour and a half, longer than the full runtime of the polished product. Each act learns their cues for the stage: where to enter, where to exit, and how to find their mark in the dark to wait in just the right place for their limelight. In the wings and up in the catwalks, the crew team waits on standby as the rehearsal drones on. The director shows the show seemingly every minute to correct something. He hobbles onstage to adjust the posture of every singer, straightening their backs and raising their chins to project their voices as proudly as possible. Music fills the round theatre as they run through their songs; then poetry, then comedy skits, then country dances. 

In the catwalks, Bertholdt sits with his legs hanging from the rafters, idle between acts. He's been assigned to man one of the spotlight mirrors, angling the panel around to catch the reflection of a lantern somewhere to shine onto the stage. Busy work, Frederick gruffly reassures him, or at least it will be during the real show. During on the director's long, meandering rants, he nearly falls asleep.

"Alright, alright," he hears the director call from below. "That's intermission! There's a spot of dinner at the back of the theatre for those who have been working hard— cadets, you packed your own, if I recall? Yes, very well, let's all have something to eat and then return to the task at hand! It's only a short intermission, so let's get on with it!"

The cadets take their packed dinners at the back of the theatre, finding spaces to squeeze in beside the villagers, who pour steaming cups of apple cider to share with the group. Bertholdt sinks down between Sasha and Connie to eat his sandwich in silence; a mistake, as they begin to quibble about something trivial, leaning over him to argue with each other. Laughter rings around the theatre. It's grown warmer somehow, even as the snow continues to fall outside; cadets and villagers sit together in the lantern light, having dinner side by side. 

Bertholdt picks at the last of his sandwich, something dry and unappetizing from the canteen, when Mikasa appears over him without preface, and stares him down.

"Can I borrow you?" she asks. In her hand, a tape measure.

Bertholdt blinks at her. "Um, okay. For what?"

"I need a model so I can make alterations," she explains flatly. She cocks her head. "I thought your legs might do."

Bertholdt wraps up the last of his sandwich. "Um, okay. Should we—"

"Follow me," Mikasa says, and she turns on her heel. He jumps to catch up with her, backstage to the costume closet, where she leads him inside, through racks of poofy dresses and old, tattered clothes. He squeezes past the costumes and comes to a dressing room at the back, with an old crate at the center and three walls of stained mirrors against the walls. 

Mikasa turns to face him, holding out a pair of pink and orange patterned pants with bells sewn up the side. They jingle when she passes them to Bertholdt.

"Put these on," she says. "Mind the pins."

Bertholdt takes the costume gingerly, the bells ringing. "Um..."

"Over yours."

He steps into the trousers awkwardly, noisily. They're too big around his waist, and the ends have been rolled up and stuck with pins to be hemmed. Mikasa nudges him onto the wooden crate.

"Hold them there," she says. "I'll pin the waist in place so I can work on the hem."

She circles him with her pincushion. Bertholdt watches in the trifold mirror, the dim candlelight of the dressing room casting strange shadows across the floor, as Mikasa moves around him without a word, the small bells jingling gently with his movements. She sets the pin cushion aside and digs into a crate of sewing supplies, to produce a spool of thread and a pair of scissors, a needle pursed between her lips.

"This will only take a few minutes," she says. "Just hold still." 

She gets on her knees and works in silence, bent so low to the floor that Bertholdt can only see the top of her head in the mirror. 

"So," he says after a moment of silence. "How did you do on the logical reasoning exam?"

Her voice is muffled, pins between her lips. "Fine."

"Oh," Bertholdt says. "So did I."

He pauses, his gaze flicking up to his reflection in the mirror. "And the sutures we did yesterday? I know that wasn't really a test, but—"

"I did fine," she says. A _zip_ as she pulls a thread tight. "I already know how to sew, so it was easy."

"Oh, right," Bertholdt says. He can't seem to hold his tongue. "I don't know if I did well. I thought it was a little hard."

"It looked like you did fine to me."

"Oh."

"It seemed like you already knew what you were doing."

"I guess so," he says. "I've done something like it before."

"It's a good skill to have. I've always thought they should put more emphasis on basic skills in the curriculum." She pulls the pant hem taut around his ankle, then tugs it loose. "We should have learned stitches in our first year."

"I guess so," Bertholdt says.

She pinches the thread. "Do you?"

"Well, I mean— I guess. I don't know if it's so important."

"Sutures can save lives."

"Sometimes," he says. "But only for small wounds. I don't know how helpful basic stitches will be beyond the wall."

"That's why we have field medics."

"Oh, right. I guess." 

"But you're planning on joining the military police," she says.

He watches his reflection, his eyes cut off in the mirror if he just raises his chin slightly. "Yes."

"Then it's a good skill to have. Sutures saves lives on the streets."

"I suppose so." He pauses. "I guess I never thought of sewing as so versatile. I only learned so I could do the mending."

"Who taught you?"

"Oh, um..."

Mikasa threads in silence for a moment, her head bent close to the floor. Then she sits upright, tugging on the needle, and says, "Sorry."

Bertholdt looks away from his reflection. "It's fine."

"I wasn't prying."

"You weren't."

She snips a loose thread with scissors. "My mother taught me how to sew."

His ears ring. With a dry mouth, he says, "So did mine."

Mikasa's hand slows, but never stills, pulling the thread taut through the colorful fabric. She works for a moment, stitch after stitch, but the silence seems to linger in the air like a wall between them, something they will not be able to ignore unless they break it down.

Finally, she says, "My mother's dead."

Bertholdt swallows. "So is mine." 

He glances down in the silence that follows. She has made quick work of the hem, and she shuffles around on her knees to move onto the next pant leg, a threaded needle pinched between her lips. 

"You seem like you're pretty good at it," Bertholdt says. He clears his throat. "Sewing. You could've done that for your audition."

She plucks the needle from her lips. "I don't think that would have been very exciting to watch."

"No, I'm— I'm joking."

"I know," she says. "But I wasn't going to audition."

"Huh."

"What?"

"That doesn't seem like it's in the spirit of community relations," he says. "We all did it. I made a fool of myself, but I still did it."

"Well," Mikasa says, her head bent, "I saw the community, and I related to it. I didn't have anything to offer for the stage. I'm much more useful back here."

Somewhere in the theatre, a crew member bellows, "Five minutes til places!"

Mikasa snips another thread. "Are you and Reiner still planning on joining the same MP squad?"

"Oh," he says. His gaze darts down to her. "Um, I guess so. Why?"

"He should practice his sutures."

"Oh," Bertholdt mutters. "Yeah, he's— I don't think he knows how to sew. I tried to teach him a bit. I guess he needs some more practice."

"No one taught him?"

Bertholdt pauses. "I don't know."

She says nothing.

"I mean," he adds, "a lot of boys don't learn, I think. Jean and Connie didn't know either."

"Hm," she says. "They should all learn. Eren's mother taught him and Armin. They do their own mending."

"Oh, yeah," Bertholdt mutters. "I do Reiner's for him."

Mikasa glances up. "You should teach him. It's an adult skill."

"Yeah, I guess."

"And he should know how to suture properly," she says. "Military police recruits spend a lot of time on the streets. They're usually the first to respond to emergencies."

"Sutures save lives," Bertholdt repeats. He pauses. "Well, he's smart enough. I'm sure he can figure it out on his own."

He swears she smiles at that. "How did he do on the logical reasoning exam?"

He holds back a sigh. "Better than me."

"I see."

"He might take number one from you if you're not careful," he says. "He's determined to stay in the top three. He's probably already taken number two back from me."

"I don't care about that," she says.

"I'm just letting you know. He wants to be at the top of the class."

She works in silence for a minute. Outside of the dressing room, backstage begins to grow louder as cast and crew take their places for the second half of the show.

"You shouldn't give it to him," she says softly. 

He glances down, then away. "I'm not giving him anything."

"Then don't let him take it. You earned your rank."

"He might have earned it over me," he says. He glances at her from the corner of his eye. "I thought you didn't care about the rankings."

"I don't," she says. She pulls a thread tight and sits back. "But you shouldn't let him have it just because he wants it." 

"Then I'm not teaching him how to sew either."

She cuts the final thread and dusts off the hem. "Hm, you're right. He can figure that one out on his own." 

Rehearsal carries on; the first act after the break opens with a jovial folk song to wake the audience at the midpoint of the show. It takes several long minutes just to stage the entrances, with a colorful ensemble of characters, who bumble around as the crew work out their spotlight. The director shouts several notes as they run through the song, and then it’s onto the rest of the numbers: Jean’s ballad, which he belts out impassionately, but with technical perfection; a pair of sonnets read by two village women who can’t seem to remember how to project; another folk dance, and then Bertholdt watches curiously as Reiner takes the stage for his monologue.

He enters stage right. The director belays his technical notes to the crew working in the catwalks: it's a drama, keep the light low, focused on the actor, and give him a breath to pause before the spotlight comes up. Keep the audience in suspense. They'll all know the play, he insists. The people of the town are well read. They'll know the story once they hear the first line, so the suspense is necessary to keep their attention. Captivate them. Give them a reason to listen. 

"And spotlight," the director orders, and the mirrors move as they are told. "Give them a beat, dear boy, a breath to take it in, and then—"

"And so it seems again," Reiner opens, "I am alone."

He speaks precisely, standing tall at center stage. He moves through the opening verse effortlessly, his words driven and determined. From the rafters above, Bertholdt watches; he feels he could recite the monologue himself by now, having heard it for weeks, having laid beside Reiner every night and heard him whispering it to himself as he fell asleep. 

But then Reiner stops short in the verse, as if suddenly breathless. He stands with one boot timidly in front of the others, one of his hands hesitating, hanging at his side with a tremble, as if he reaches for something he cannot see. Almost there. 

"Overhead," he tries again. "No, o'erhead, the light— the _stars—"_

He drops his hand. Tension is high in his shoulders.

"Sorry," he exclaims. "I just can't get that one line. Can I— should I start over?"

A sigh from the director. "Very well, dear boy, but we are nearly in the eleventh hour! You should be well off book by now. Start again, stage right."

Reiner trods offstage, his boots scraping across the floor. A few beats, and then he enters again. The same bravado as he crosses the stage in the dark. The a trick of the mirrors, a beat, and the spotlight lands on him again.

In the limelight, he loses it.

"And so it seems again," he exclaims. "I am alone. I—"

A hesitant pause. He takes a breath.

"A lonely— a lonesome man— no, a _solemn_ man—"

He trails off again. This time, he raises his hand. He reaches out. In the silence, Bertholdt cannot tell what he is reaching for. The next line of the monologue, as if he can snatch it out of the air. Or something else. 

The director sighs again.

“My boy,” he says, and the spell of the stage is broken. “This is not just another rehearsal! We are two days away from the show. Do you know the scene or not?”

Reiner drops his hand.

“I do,” he insists. “It’s just—“

“Now is not the time to develop stage fright!" the director exclaims. "You cannot forget the words in front of the audience, soldier. You must press on through the verse, even if you do not know what comes next. You must do _something_.”

A pause. 

"I know it," Reiner says. "I can do it."

“Then _show me_ ,” the director insists. “I have heard you perform this verse in full, young man, and I know that you have the words within you. But remember what else we have discussed! Remember your character! Think about the subtext, the meaning of the words you are saying. What is our hero’s motivation? What keeps him pressing forward through his struggles? What does he want more than anything in the world, and what will he do to get it?”

He gasps. "I think I may know your problem, dear boy! This may just be one monologue, but the play from which it comes is a love story! A story of passion, of desperation, of anguish! A tragedy. By this point in the show, you would have been onstage with your leading lady many times, but this scene, performed as a single verse— yes, you need a way to channel that passion!

"Where's that young soprano from the corps?" he calls, glancing around. "Christa is her name? Yes, is she backstage? Very well— tell her later, she'll play your opposite. The heroine isn't traditionally onstage in this part of the play, so she'll have no lines, but she'll give you someone to speak to. I think that will help!"

“Should I go get her?” Reiner asks. “I can do it, and if you think that will help—“

“Not tonight,” the director says, waving him offstage. “We have much more work to do before the night is over, and our time is precious.”

“No, I can do it! Let me start again.”

"No," he says, his final word. He peers at Reiner over the rim of his glasses. "Not at this hour. You can show me at the dress rehearsal. Tonight, we must move on."

Only a handful of acts remain. A love duet follows the monologue, then one final dance, and then the ensemble number at the end, bringing most of the performers back onstage to lead the audience through a well-known folk song, native to the western plains of Wall Rose. Out of all the numbers, it should take the longest to arrange, with the sheer number of people onstage; but either the director is tired, or he knows the audience will not care, because the rehearsal closes shortly without much more to say on the matter. The ensemble number ends, and a cheer rouses through the performers to celebrate the end of a long night. 

“It’s late,” Connie yawns when Bertholdt joins him backstage. He’s packing up a cache of props as performers file through, dropping off costumes and heading out for the night. He gives into his yawn with tears in his eyes. “Shadis is gonna be pissed, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” Bertholdt mutters. He glances through the crowd. “I didn’t know we would be here so late.”

“Well, it’s his fault that we’re here. He can’t get mad at us for that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Bertholdt mutters.

Connie jumps to his feet suddenly, his tired eyes widening with frenzy. “Oy, there’s Reiner. I'm finally gonna get him back for that snowball.”

Bertholdt hesitates. “I don’t know if you should mess with him right now. His rehearsal didn’t exactly go well.”

“Nah, that’s what makes it the perfect time,” Connie says. “He’ll never see it coming, not tonight. Watch this.”

“Connie, don't—"

He slips through the crowd before Bertholdt can stop him. The performers are leaving, slipping on their hats and jackets to disappear out the stage door, and as the number of people backstage thins out, Bertholdt gets a better view of the sneak attack he is about to witness. Connie's not surreptitious as he waltzes across the room, but Reiner is distracted, his back turned as he talks to Christa, who seems more unsure with each passing second whether she should interrupt him to warn of Connie's approach. A surprise attack, from behind. An unfair move that gives Connie the advantage on his target. His enemy.

His hands don't touch Reiner's shoulders. He never gets his grip in Reiner's sweater, to wring it over the back of his head and blind him like he plans. He takes one second too long, moves too noisily, and in the next instant, his wrist is snatched in Reiner's grasp and he is swung forward, his arm twisted around his back. 

“Shit!” Connie yelps. His face contorts in pain. “What the hell?”

Christa steps back. “Reiner!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Connie exclaims. “Get off me!”

Bertholdt can’t see. With Reiner’s back to him, he can’t see, but hecan imagine the look on his face— the grimace that must seem like anger, that Bertholdt knows is fear; the glassiness in his eyes when it slips away, leaving him bare, his expression blank; the way he seems to lose control over his own grip and Connie slips out of his hands, stumbling forward, hissing to himself as Reiner drops his hands to his sides and stands still.

“I was just messing around,” Connie exclaims, turning back with his eyes wide. “Fuck, what’s the matter with you?”

“Sorry,” is all Reiner says. “I’m sorry.”

Connie rubs his sore wrist. “Yeah, I hope you are. You nearly broke my arm!" 

Christa takes a ginger step forward. “Are you alright, Connie?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he mutters. “It’s fine.”

The stage door slams.

“For fuck’s sakes,” Timo exclaims, and he stands there with snow in his hair, glaring at the cadets from across the dark room. “I told you guys not to show up if you weren’t going to take this seriously. All you guys do is goof off. I knew this was just a big joke to you.”

“Hey,” Connie interjects, still clutching his wrist, “we’ve been working our asses off for this stupid show! Just because Reiner’s being an ass, don’t take it out on me!”

“Oh, it’s a stupid show now, is it?” Timo exclaims angrily. “You, of all people, I thought would understand how important this is to us!"

“I didn’t mean it like that, come on! You’ve all got such sticks up your asses—“

“Hey,” Bertholdt says quietly, reaching out to Connie. “I think we’re all just a little tired—“

“Then leave,” Timo exclaims, thrusting out his arms. He points to the door. “Run back to your _stupid_ training compound, or get lost in the blizzard on the way there! I don’t care. But we don’t need you here.”

Christa holds up a hand. “Did you say blizzard?”

Timo drops his arm. “Yeah, the storm’s gotten worse. Have fun freezing on your way out of town.”

He stalks past them, and Bertholdt follows Christa, seemingly the only other person with any common sense tonight, through the wings to the theatre, where the rest of the cadets have clustered together, packing their things to head back to the compound.

"Has anyone looked outside?" Christa asks from center stage. "Apparently the storm's become a blizzard."

Ymir jerks the hood of her coat up over her head. "Great. I'm not almost dying for any of you fucks tonight, just so we're clear. Looking at you, Daz."

Eren glances around as he pulls on his gloves. "The compound's not that far. We can probably make it."

From the back of the theatre, the director hobbles towards them with his cane, shaking his head as he goes. 

"No, I'm afraid it might be too late now, soldiers!" he exclaims on his approach. "I've just had a look outside, and your little lanterns wouldn't make it out of town, I don't think! And though I'm sure your commanding officer is quite concerned about your welfare at this late hour, I have to admit, so am I! I can't in good conscience let you all wander off into the dark in such bad weather."

"It can't be that bad," Jean says, pulling on his coat. "We've been out in some pretty bad weather."

"Never by choice," Armin says, glancing at him. "The compound's not that far, but—"

A sudden wind blows over the theatre, rattling the walls. The canvas tarp overhead, covering the open ceiling, shakes under the yowl of the wind, and sheets of snow spill through the cracks where it's pinned together. The cadets leap out of the way, the small avalanche coming down just before the stage. 

Armin looks around. "I think we can all agree it's not worth the risk."

The director raps his cane on the floor. "Very well, we'll just have to make do! Everyone, pick a bench. It will be your bed for the night. Drag them out of the way, yes, we don't want anyone freezing to death in their sleep. There should be enough blankets in the costume closet for each of you, and you can bring your lanterns round to keep you warm."

He glances around at them as he knots up his scarf. "It's not ideal, of course, but you're soldiers, aren't you? Always prepared for the unexpected! Let's hope so, at least. I must endeavor into the storm to make my way home, but I shall return in the morning for a welfare check!"

He pauses at the side door, turning wearily on his cane to address them.

"Do try not to burn the theatre down tonight," he says with a sigh. "We've got a very important show to perform in just two days' time, and you know what they say, don't you? The show _must_ go on!"


	7. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm just standing there, bleeding out onstage, and he's telling me it's not enough."

Outside, the wind howls. It blows furiously through the town, whistling up the streets and across the exterior walls of the theatre. The cadets stand inside, their low lanterns the only lights left, with their faces turned to the ceiling; the tarp, strung in place to keep the snow out during rehearsal, shakes and rattles over their heads. White wisps of snow drift in around the edges of the tarp, floating down to land on their faces. Bertholdt turns his gaze down, blinking snowflakes from his eyelashes. 

"It was kind of us to let the director stay here overnight," Christa says, the first one to break the silence.

No one seems keen to respond. Cold, tired, and not looking forward to a miserable night sleeping on the hard benches with barely any blankets to cover them. She glances around to Bertholdt, holding up her lantern.

"Oh," he says. "Yeah, it was. I guess— we should see about fetching some blankets."

It's a small relief to find the costume closet overflowing with spare fabric, though little of it could be called proper covers for a cold night. Still, it's better than nothing, and they have their thick winter coats; they'll stay insulated sleeping inside those. It's like they're camping, Christa exclaims to the cadets as she distributes rolls of wool and cotton from the costume closet. Several of them roll their eyes, but Bertholdt, at least, is glad for her useful company. Many of the others seem as if they would have rather trekked back to the compound through the storm. He knows, and she seems to know too, how senseless that would have been, to risk their lives in the blizzard, especially after the dreadful expedition in the cliffs they had earlier this winter. 

Bertholdt makes his bed on a bench in the corner, furthest from the campfire of lanterns arranged in the centre of the theatre. The others will need the warmth more than him. It's still cold, even with the blankets, even with their winter coats, but the mood lifts a little when Mikasa distributes a handful of biscuits to snack on around the makeshift campfire. Not much, but enough to put them in a better mindset. It's just one night, and if anything, Bertholdt thinks Shadis will let them off easy; they're being resourceful, for once, and it's much less paperwork for him if none of them die trying to get home in the storm. 

"This is cozy," Ymir exclaims, dropping her coat and blanket onto the bench in front of Bertholdt. "Nothing like sleeping on hard wood with the risk of an avalanche coming down on top of you."

She drops onto the bench with a sigh. "I feel like I'm in church."

Christa shuffles past, already wearing her winter coat. The hood is tucked up over her head, and her blonde hair sticks out at odd angles. "Just sleep on the floor if you're going to complain."

They gather around the fire before bed to have their snack, but it becomes clear, no matter how tired they are, sleep won't come easy to them tonight. They're wired now, a little excitement in their day, and the wind blows furiously outside. It rattles the tarp overhead, and the doors of the theatre; no one will be able to sleep until they can't keep their eyes open anymore.

Bertholdt folds his arms around himself and joins the cadets at the circle of lanterns. He keeps one eye on the stage. Connie slunk out a few minutes ago, dismayed to find that they wouldn't be going home tonight, but Reiner has yet to make a reappearance. Bertholdt hopes he's still back there.

"Think there's any liquor hidden somewhere in the theatre?" Jean asks, dropping into the circle beside Armin. He sounds like he's joking, and the cadets titter, but Bertholdt doesn't think he is; at the same time, he remember the stash he's seen up in the catwalks, a case of dusty beer bottle at the far end, behind a coil of thick rope. 

Marco rolls his eyes, smiling as he tends to the flame of his lantern. "We should keep our wits about us. That tarp could come down at any minute."

"At least it would keep us warm," Hannah mutters from across the circle. She shuffles closer to Thomas.

"Well, I wouldn't mind that," he sighs. He purses his lip as if to keep speaking. Then he pushes his lantern back into the center, and he glances up after a moment to find all their eyes on him. "What?"

"Dunno," Eren says. "Seemed like you were going to say something else."

"Oh," Marco says. He sits back. "Not really. I was just thinking— we're really close to graduation. We might not get many more chances to hang out like this."

"So what you're saying," Connie interjects, "is that we _should_ go searching for liquor."

He rolls his eyes again. "I doubt there's anything like that here. The director is kind of..."

"A pain," Sasha offers. 

"A hardass," Jean mutters.

Marco smiles. "Yeah, both of those, I guess."

The wind whistles outside as low conversations carry on. Bertholdt watches the candle flames, his knees tucked up to his chest; but he can't keep his eyes off the stage, and after a few minutes, he shifts out of the circle, as quietly as possible, and he stands, slipping out of the lantern light, away from the other cadets to head backstage. He pads through the wings, blinking into the dark as he comes backstage, peering around the corner.

"Reiner?" he calls, his voice softer. All his movements seem to echo through the quiet theatre. He can't hear the other cadets anymore, as he comes around the corner and his eyes adjust to the dark. He blinks, and there, sitting on the floor by the piano, sits Reiner.

Bertholdt pads up to him. "Hey."

He sits with his legs splayed out in front of him, leaning back against the wall, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. He doesn't say anything at first, not until Bertholdt gets onto his knees beside him, and then Reiner sighs without opening his eyes. "Hi."

Bertholdt sets his lantern aside. "The storm's gotten worse. We have to spend the night here."

"I know. I heard you guys talking."

"Oh, okay."

He glances away. It's dark backstage, just their lanterns flickering in the darkness. Reiner says nothing else, just takes in a deep breath and lets it rise through his chest slowly; then fall, as Bertholdt watches, the rest of him still as he measures his breaths. His hands lie on his lap, and sitting loosely between two of his fingers, a scrap of paper with ink on it. 

Bertholdt sits back on his heels. "Everyone's out there. Getting ready for bed and talking, if you wanted to come."

"I need to practice," Reiner says, his eyes still closed.

"You know you don't have to punish yourself like this. It's just a show."

"It's not just a show. I've got this part, and I've got to do it right." A second later, he rolls his head to look at Bertholdt and opens his eyes. "Didn't you see me tonight?"

"Well," Bertholdt says, shifting. He brings one knee up and clutches it to his chest. "A little bit. I was up in the catwalks."

"So you saw me," Reiner says. The lantern light flickers in his eyes: still and quiet, before his face screws into frustration and he sighs, leaning back again with the piece of paper clenched in one hand. "I was awful."

"You weren't that bad," Bertholdt murmurs, resting his hands on his knee. 

"I was miserable. I can't remember any of my lines. And he keeps telling me to put more emotion into it. Like, to think about what the hero is going through and all of that, but I don't know how much more I can do. I'm just standing there, bleeding out onstage, and he's telling me it's not enough." 

He squeezes his eyes shut, lifts his head and drops it against the wall. Repeat.

"Hey," Bertholdt mutters, leaning towards him. "You know it. You had it memorized for your audition. It's all in there."

He reaches out with one finger and taps Reiner's forehead. Reiner pauses, his eyes fluttering open, a half-smile blooming on his lips. But his gaze is busy, frustrated, and the smile fades just as easily.

"I _knew_ it," he says. "I've lost it all."

"You've just got to get it back."

"Well, obviously, Bertholdt. I know that."

Bertholdt shifts again, shuffling around to face Reiner, his legs splayed sideways. Reiner watches him with a quiet gaze; he says nothing when Bertholdt reaches out to gently tug at the piece of paper in his hands. He lets Bertholdt have it.

"How'd you learn it the first time?" Bertholdt asks, his head turned down to read the paper. The monologue, scrawled in Reiner's handwriting. Inky and messy, with words scratched out. He frowns. "Where did you even find this?"

"It's from an old play," Reiner mutters. He bumps one of his boots against Bertholdt's behind. "I just picked it out of a book. I thought it sounded nice. I didn't know it had to be so serious."

"A library book?" Bertholdt exclaims, glancing up.

"Yeah. I can read, you know."

"I just didn't know you ever went to the library," Bertholdt mutters. He trails his finger down the verses of the monologue, reading Reiner's haphazard script. The cuff of his sweater catches on a scratch in the paper. He tears it away, but it leaves a little green fuzz between the verses, and he stares at it. 

"Will you help me?" Reiner asks, his voice soft. His knocks his boot against Bertholdt again. "Please?"

"You mean, help you practice?"

"Yeah, I need to get this down tonight. The dress rehearsal is tomorrow."

"I guess," Bertholdt says. He picks the green fuzz from the paper. "Do you know how to sew?"

Reiner's brow is furrowed when Bertholdt glances back to him.

"What?" he asks, frowning. "Yes."

"Oh," Bertholdt says. He rubs the fuzz back into the cuff of his sweater. "Your stitches the other day were kind of shitty, so I wasn't sure." 

He snorts. "Thanks, Bert." 

Bertholdt glances up. "Hang on, if you know how to sew, why do I do all of your mending for you?"

"Oh, well," Reiner says. "You offered once."

"And?"

"And what? I wasn't about to turn that down."

"You've been able to sew this whole time?" Bertholdt exclaims, his brow knitted. "You've been letting me darn your socks for you for years? Do you know how much your feet stink?"

Reiner's boots knocks into him. "Yeah, that's why I let you do it."

Bertholdt purses his lip and throws the paper back at Reiner. It drifts away, fluttering towards the piano, and he flushes. "You can darn your own socks from now on."

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."

"They're your socks!" Bertholdt exclaims. "I'll help you rehearse, but I'm not doing that anymore."

With a huff, Reiner lunges sideways, falling over onto his elbows to grapple for the paper script, which has slid under the piano stool; he smacks his hand on the floor to trap it, then sits back up and takes it in both hands. He stares down at his own handwriting, seemingly lost under the lantern light.

Bertholdt watches him in silence for a moment. He sets one of his hands on Reiner's knee, dusting off his white trousers. Reiner hums at the touch. 

"Who taught you?" Bertholdt asks softly.

His gaze flicks up. "What?"

"Who taught you how to sew?"

He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. Does it matter?"

Bertholdt picks off a piece of dust. "No, I guess not."

"What's with you? Thinking of a career change?"

He shuffles around to draw one knee up to his chin. "Was it your mom?"

He can read the uncertainty on Reiner's face. Hesitant, cautious; he's guarded, the way he always is about his family, no matter how gently Bertholdt asks.

Bertholdt doesn't expect Reiner to give him a straight answer, but his stomach sinks when Reiner stands instead of responding, brushing past him to get to his feet and cross the small, dark room, the little paper clenched between his two hands. Bertholdt hears him on the other side, where his boots still after he can escape no further. He glances over his shoulder, and Reiner is looking back at him, standing sideways, half his body in the shadows as he watches Bertholdt. Their eyes meet. Then Reiner glances away, fumbling with the paper.

"I guess so," he mutters from the shadows. "I don't remember."

"Oh," Bertholdt says. He shuffles around to face Reiner. "Sorry."

"Why are you even asking?"

"I don't know," he murmurs. He tugs at the cuff of his sweater. "I was just thinking about it. My mom taught me, before she died."

He feels Reiner's gaze dart to him. "You must have been young."

"Yeah," Bertholdt says, to himself as much as to Reiner. "I guess I was." 

He doesn't want to say, not out loud, not even to the darkness— that he doesn't really remember, not the way he pretends he does. Not the way he has been imagining since Mikasa asked him. He can imagine the perfume she might have worn, or how they might have sat by the fire together and done the mending. But he would have been so young. For all he knows, it might not have been her at all. He might have never sat by her side with his chin on her knee and watched her stitch up a hole in one of his sweaters. He might have been watching his father do it. He might have made it up, either way. 

"Yeah," Reiner says softer, and Bertholdt glances up as he tucks his hands into his pockets, tapping the toe of one boot against the floor. "I guess she did. I didn't remember until just now. She used to make me sit and watch while she mended my uniform."

Bertholdt glances over his shoulder.

"I think I ripped the seat of my pants every other week," Reiner continues without looking up. "It happened once on my way to training and I think I spent the entire day walking backwards. I would've died if anyone had noticed." 

He glances to Bertholdt, who lets himself smile, the knot in his stomach coming undone. 

"My shirts were never long enough," Bertholdt says softly, his chin on his knee. "I couldn't tuck them in. I had to go home and stitch on extra fabric at the end just to keep them tucked into my pants."

Reiner grins at him. "You used to look like a little giraffe."

His eyes dart to the wings. "Reiner."

"Don't worry," Reiner murmurs, shuffling around to fully face him. "I always thought it was cute."

Bertholdt bites his lip, glancing down. He hears Reiner's boots shuffling around backstage, and after a moment, he looks back up: Reiner, pacing, circling around in the dim light, his script clenched in one hand, his toes kicking up dust as he purses his lips and thinks. He mutters to himself, his voice silent; he's practicing, Bertholdt thinks, his brow screwed up in concentration. He seems to lose himself for a moment, unaware that Bertholdt is watching him.

Then he pauses in his path, his boots treading to a halt. He glances to Bertholdt, their eyes meeting again, and he drops his shoulders, letting out a long breath as he comes towards Bertholdt, holding out the script.

"Will you help me?" he asks softer.

Bertholdt stands, taking the paper that Reiner presses into his hands. "I don't know how much help I'll be. You want me to read lines?"

"Yeah, if I call for them," Reiner says. "I think I've got it now. I think I was just nervous tonight. But can you follow along, just in case I need it?"

Bertholdt does as he's told. He sits with his back against the wall, the scrap of paper in his hands, and he reads along as Reiner rehearses. He makes a drama of getting into character, and a grand entrance on the opening line; but from there, he seems to lose it. He manages to recite the monologue once, stumbling from beginning to end, but then the lines seem to fail him, his words falling on every verse. Bertholdt watches from where he sits, quiet, the lantern light at his feet.

"Perhaps I should have known," he speaks aloud, his voice changed, dramatic, "when even sunlight casts a glare so cold and dim. Overhead—"

He pauses, a hand outstretched. "O'erhead—"

"The stars now hide behind the heavens," Bertholdt reads from the script, and he opens his mouth to carry on, but Reiner drops his hand and huffs, his brow screwed in frustration as he glares at Bertholdt.

Bertholdt lowers the paper. "Sorry. I thought you wanted me to read along."

"I'll call for a line if I need it," Reiner insists, his hands on his hips. "It was just there, on the tip of my tongue. You took it away from me."

"Sorry," Bertholdt mutters. 

Reiner turns his back. "I have to start again."

The storm swells outside, battering against the walls of the theatre. Reiner carries on, each line of the monologue falling short, until Bertholdt opens his mouth and utters the next words. Then he runs on, the next line or two remembered, until it happens again. And again, and again. 

Bertholdt's eyes are glazing over when he notices a sudden silence; he glances up from where he sits, and he finds Reiner, quiet, bent forward with his hands on his knees. Most of his face is blind to Bertholdt, turned down to the ground, but his brow is knitted with frustration, and his fingers clench at his legs, knuckles white. Bertholdt sits up straighter. He sets the script aside and opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say. Something soft and gentle, something that Reiner can handle hearing right now.

He hesitates. And Reiner mutters a low, whiny _damn it_ under his breath, before slumping onto the floor and dropping flat onto his back, his arms and legs splayed out.

Bertholdt stands. "Reiner?"

The low candlelight flickers over his face, his eyes squeezed shut as he lies on the floor. "Why is this so hard?"

"Reiner," Bertholdt says, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice any longer. "Stand up."

"I'm tired," he moans. "This shouldn't be so hard."

"You just have to keep working on it," Bertholdt says. He sits back down and takes up the script again. "You know, practice makes perfect."

"No, it doesn't. You only get to be perfect by being born perfect."

Bertholdt sighs. "Well, alright. But it doesn't have to be perfect. It's a local variety show. Half the people on stage barely know what they're doing."

When Reiner doesn't respond, he pauses, then adds, "You were really good at your audition. We all thought so."

"Then why can't I do it?" he exclaims. He runs his hands over his face, groaning. "Why can't I get it right? I feel like I'm missing something. What am I missing, Bertholdt?"

Bertholdt glances down at the script. "I don't know. Did you read this whole play?"

"No, I didn't have time for that."

"Well, maybe you just need some context then," Bertholdt says. He flicks the edge of the paper at a crease where Reiner has folded it. "I think you know the lines, but maybe it would help if really knew the meaning. Like, how the words connect to what happens in the rest of the play."

He pauses. "The director said it's a romance, right?"

"Yeah." Reiner pushes a hand back through his hair. "It's a classic, apparently."

"So maybe it'll help to have Christa onstage, as if you were really in the play. So you can imagine it better."

"It's not going to help."

"It might. You'll get a chance to rehearse with her before the show, won't you?"

"I guess," Reiner mutters. "But it won't help. I didn't pick it because it's a romance."

Bertholdt glances down at the words. He feels like he could recite it himself, having heard it so many times now, but he reads it again, line by line, playing it out in his mind.

Reiner sighs. "I just liked the way it sounded." 

It's quiet with neither of them speaking, just the crackling of the flickering flames inside their lanterns. Even the wind seems to have died down a bit, and Bertholdt sits in the silence, staring at the words on the page, at Reiner, lying with his eyes closed on the floor, at the dark room around them and the rafters above, the long loops of rope hanging from the catwalks. Bertholdt stares up into the darkness. 

"Do you want a beer?" he asks in the quiet. 

Reiner shifts, rolling his head to look at Bertholdt. "I don't think anything in town is open."

"No, there's some upstairs," Bertholdt says. He sets the script aside and taps the toes of his boots together. "It belongs to Frederick. The lights man I've been working with. I don't think he would mind if we had one."

"Some people would call that stealing," Reiner says. 

Bertholdt flushes. "I know."

"Oh," Reiner drawls. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, shifting onto his side to face Bertholdt, the shadows of the yellow lantern light drawing strangely across his face. "I see."

"If you're going to be righteous about it, then I rescind my offer," Bertholdt says. "I just thought it might help you relax. You get so caught up in your head about this kind of stuff. It might help you to loosen up."

"Get out of my head, you mean."

"Yeah," he says with a small shrug. "So you don't worry as much."

He starts in his seat when Reiner's hand slaps the hardwood floor of the stage, a thudding declaration that creaks through the theatre. 

"Alright," Reiner exclaims, lurching upright onto his knees. "Let's have a drink."

The glass bottle is like ice in Bertholdt's hand when he digs it out from Frederick's hidden stash. He'll replace it later, he thinks as he trails back down the narrow stairs, each wooden step creaking wearily beneath his boots. They may never be back here again once the show is over; they may be very far away in just a few short months, but for some reason, of all things, Bertholdt feels guilty for taking the beer. He'll make sure to replace it before he leaves. 

He thrusts the bottle against the stair rail to pop the cap off. It comes away clean, and he stows it in his pocket. At the bottom of the stairs, Reiner waits for him, humming, his hands laced over the top of his head as he paces, his boots restless. Maybe a drink isn't a good idea tonight, but Bertholdt is passing the bottle to him before he can think about it twice; and he watches, his heart catching in his throat, as Reiner tilts his head back to take a drink.

In the dark, just the flicker of their lanterns, the amber bottle shimmers. Reiner swallows, and the spit and beer on his lips shine in the golden light when he lowers his head. He hands the bottle across to Bertholdt, an easy smile coming over him.

"Thanks," he says. He presses the bottle back into Bertholdt's hand. "You're right, I think it'll get me out of my head."

"Good," Bertholdt says. "Oh, no, not me."

Reiner grins at him. "Trying to get me drunk, Bert? I see how it is."

Bertholdt bites back a smile. "No, I just feel like one of us should be level-headed. There are a lot of open fires in this theatre right now, and everyone else has probably gone to bed."

"C'mon," Reiner says, nudging the bottle into his hand. "I'm not going to finish it all by myself. You could stand to loosen up too."

He gives Reiner a look. "Well, okay, but I'm not getting drunk."

"Neither of us are, not sharing one beer." Reiner spins on his heels as Bertholdt takes the bottle, and he throws his arms up, his hands pushing back over his eyes and through his hair as he paces around, his boots jumping and trotting. "Okay, I can do this! I just need to feel it a bit more. Not think so much."

He jumps up and down, shaking out his arms. "Will you read along again?"

Their lanterns are burning low. Bertholdt takes his post with the script, and he holds back a yawn when Reiner begins another run of the monologue. He's better at it this time, or at least, he can remember the words. Whether it will please the director is another matter, and not one that concerns Bertholdt at this hour. 

"Perhaps I should have known," he listens to Reiner recite, moan, drone. "when even sunlight casts a glare so cold..."

His face is downturned when Reiner drops down next to him and sidles up. He reaches across Bertholdt to take another drink from the beer bottle. One of his hands brushes over Bertholdt's shoulder, and Bertholdt flushes, when Reiner peers at him through the brown glass of the bottle, his face just inches away. 

Bertholdt bites his lip. "Reiner." 

"You're cute," Reiner says.

"We're rehearsing," Bertholdt says. He shifts to sit upright. "You're already tipsy."

Reiner swallows. He sets the bottle down, his hand knocking against Bertholdt's knee. 

"I'm not," he says. "Just in a good mood, all of a sudden. And it's been a while. Since we had a bit to drink. Among other things."

"We're rehearsing," Bertholdt whispers. "You're the one who wanted to do this."

"Nor I, a fool in love," Reiner recites, his hand reaching out to cup Bertholdt's cheek. He stares into him, a low, heated gaze that never breaks.

"Am I to walk this road alone?" he whispers. "To follow where my lover leads, the solemn trail behind?" 

A beat. 

Then Bertholdt breathes, "You can't do that during the show."

Reiner peers up at him with one eyebrow raised. "Why not? It's not like this is a high class venue. The audience would go wild."

He takes another drink, his head tilting back. When he swallows, his eyes dart back to meet Bertholdt's gaze, and he lowers the bottle, leaning forward. He comes in slowly, one hand on Bertholdt's knee, their gazes never breaking. Then he pushes up and presses their lips together.

He's bitter, like the beer foam. But still sweet beneath, and Bertholdt melts into the tender kiss. His eyes flutter shut; he feels Reiner hum against him, his breath warm on Bertholdt's lips, his hand still coaxing on Bertholdt's knee. 

"Reiner," Bertholdt murmurs, and Reiner's only response is to smile on his lips, then duck his head to tuck his nose under Bertholdt's ear and leave a tiny, tender kiss on the skin of his neck.

Bertholdt shivers. "Reiner, we shouldn't."

"C'mon," Reiner murmurs, his breath like fire on Bertholdt's skin. "Let's fool around. Just for a little bit."

"We shouldn't."

"I want to see you smile."

"Not here," Bertholdt whispers. He grasps at Reiner, his hand bunching up in his green sweater. "Someone could see."

"Everyone went to bed."

"Somewhere else," he whispers, because despite his best intentions, he can't help himself— not when Reiner kisses the corner of his lips like that, or when he grabs Bertholdt's hand in midair and laces their fingers together as they whisper to each other. Not with Reiner so close to him, loving on him, his heartbeat keeping time with Bertholdt's. One, two. 

The candlelight is low when their boots shuffle along the wooden floor. Bertholdt takes Reiner by the hand and leads him through the door to the spiral staircase, a narrow hall of total darkness when the door closes softly behind them. Bertholdt takes the first few steps, one, two, and Reiner's fingers lace around his wrist; he stops Bertholdt there on the stairs, a step below him, coming up in the darkness to press Bertholdt against the cold wall and kiss him hungrily, pushing up into him, Bertholdt's hands in his hair. 

"I shouldn't have given you that drink," Bertholdt murmurs as Reiner trails a kiss down his jawline. He clutches at Reiner: hands moving across his shoulder, down the curve of his arms, and back up, to clutch at his face and the short tuft of hair at the nape of his neck. "You're awful when you're drunk."

"Mm," Reiner breathes on his neck. "Not drunk."

"Still awful."

"Mm." 

"Oh," Bertholdt breathes, his eyes squeezing shut as Reiner sucks on his neck. "Hey, you're going to leave a mark."

"That's the idea."

"No, don't," Bertholdt pleads, his voice soft in the stairwell, his hand clenching at the collar of Reiner's sweater. "Everyone will see."

Reiner kisses the hand that holds him back. "So?"

"They'll say something. They're already bad enough."

"Alright, alright." He leans in to kiss Bertholdt. "I'll give you something else." 

Bertholdt savors the taste of him, a sweetness on his mouth like beer, like candlelight— the way Reiner leaves his lips tingling when he kisses onward, and the way his heart hums through his chest as he holds onto the boy who loves him. Outside, the snowstorm rages on, but they are tucked up against each other, backs to the walls, and for a comforting moment, Bertholdt forgets everything. He forgets. 

Reiner's hand tugs on his belt. 

"Oh," Bertholdt breathes, his eyes fluttering open.

"Mm-hmm," Reiner murmurs, lips on the tender skin just below his ear. "Do you want me to?"

Shapes begin to emerge in the darkness; the staircase looming over them, spiraling far above their heads to reach the rafters, the ropes, and Bertholdt tilts his head back against the wall, with Reiner between his arms, watching in silence. 

"We shouldn't," he says weakly into the darkness. "Not here."

"We shouldn't, or you don't want to?"

He hesitates, his hands on Reiner's shoulders. "We shouldn't."

"You don't want me to go down on you?"

"I—" He sucks in a breath, letting his eyes fall shut again as Reiner kisses the corner of his mouth. "I just want to be with you right now."

"Hm?"

"Just hold me," Bertholdt whispers. His fingers clench on Reiner. "Like this."

_"Hold me_ _,"_ Reiner mutters in his ear. "Maybe you should play opposite me. If we just put you in a wig and you talk like that—"

Silence echoes through the stairwell. Bertholdt can hardly see anything when Reiner pulls back, suddenly cold and stiff. The only light is a dim blue from above, a crack in the ceiling somewhere that lets in the strange, cool moonlight of midwinter. He watches Reiner's form, a figure in the dark: he falls back against the railing, still and silent. 

"I'm sorry," he hears in the dark. "I'm sorry, Bertholdt. I'm being such an ass for no reason. I'm being horrible and you don't deserve it. You shouldn't put up with it. You shouldn't let me be so awful. I'm _such_ an idiot."

"Reiner," Bertholdt says. His voice sounds cold. "It's fine."

"It's _not_ fine, I'm _awful_ to you, I'm _horrible—"_

"Don't be upset, Reiner," he whispers. "Please, don't be upset. Please, just let me—"

His hand touches the pale of Reiner's face, cold but for the hot tears on his skin. Bertholdt's heart wrenches. 

"Just hold me," he hears: whisper, choke. 

He comes into Bertholdt's arms. He falls, his shoulder turned in on himself, his cold hands wrapped around his body, and Bertholdt gasps when he catches him, when they sink to the steps, when he feels the shaking in his arms.

"Oh," Bertholdt utters. 

His chest tightens. A sob builds in his throat. Hot and wet and ugly. He holds it back. He bends, his eyes closed, and he rocks back and forth, laying his cheek on Reiner's head as he holds him. 

"Oh, Reiner," he breathes. "I'm here. I've got you."

Reiner sobs. "I want to go home."

Bertholdt shuts his eyes. He holds back the gasp that comes when he feels the tears slip down his cheeks.

"We'll be home soon," he whispers. He holds Reiner close. "I promise."


	8. viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It could be what they’ve been searching for all these years. It could be nothing, or it could be everything.

On a clear night in the valley, Wall Rose can be seen in the distance. It rises over the land, stretching across the horizon from one end to the other. From afar, down in the village streets or the hazy blue fields, it can be hard to admire how grand it is; sometimes it seems to fade into its surroundings, just a grey line separating the land from the sky. But look closer, and it looms over everything. Look closer, and the wall is everything. A stone fortress, rumbling across the land— through forests, around mountains, over rivers. Concentric around the heart of the world. From below, a fantastic sight. Terrific in its might.

But from above.

Oh, from above. 

Above is a different world. Wall Rose, the beast, is little more than a garden fence— something to be leaned on, leaped over, kicked through. From above, the wall ends; it meets the other side, and it ends. The wall lies below the horizon, beneath the heavens, just a circle of stone placed on the center of a green isle, ringed between its sisters like a child's game in the garden. Left abandoned in the grass to be rained on, to be remembered another day and picked up again with clumsy hands, to be rearranged. 

From above, everything is always so small. His head is in the clouds, a cold wind in his hair, as Bertholdt sits on his knees and watches the world of pretend below. He lies his hands along the top of the wall. He inches cannons out of the way to rest his chin and he sits with his knees in the dirt, the hem of his white shorts getting muddy. He watches the tiny fir trees of the cliffside forest and the breeze rushing through them, sending a tinny whisper through the woods. He watches the rivers, a little trickle across the land. The snow in the fields, like melted marshmallow. The green grass peeking through in tiny flicks of spring promises. 

Then his curious gaze flicks to the red-roofed village. He watches the people. 

They look like porcelain figures in a dollhouse village, like the one that appeared in a shop window on High Street in the weeks leading up to Victory Day. Beneath the banners and buntings, children gathered to press their noses to the glass and observe the miniature town— tiny row houses in all different colors; wooden bridges with planks the size of matchsticks, rising over a pond painted onto the floor of the display; and the most wonderful sight of all, a toy train of royal blue that chugged around the window on a tiny wooden track. The children watched in awe, their breaths fogging up the glass. Then the school bell rang, and they raced down the street with their scarves flying in the wind, hoping their teacher would forgive them for being late. 

He remembers walking past the window, crossing on the other side of the street, his head turned low as he hurried to the base. He remembers wondering how it felt to peer over the tiny lifelike village, to see the little people as ants and the houses as toys. Things to be played with. Things to be crushed.

He turns his cheek to lay across the wall. He reaches out; one hand, carefully down into the fields, where he sticks a finger into the snow and traces the letters of his name. 

"Hello," he whispers. "Do you remember me?" 

He draws his hand back and watches, head turned to the side, as the tiny chimneys blow smoke, as the cotton clouds drift by his head. The villagers, like ants, scatter through the streets of the little town, their boots clicking on the road like marbles jumbling together. He frowns, a hot sob welling up in his throat; he pulls his arms away and sits back on his knees, a shiver coming over him as it begins to snow.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he whispers. His chin trembles. "I'm sorry."

He reaches out one shivering hand. He wants to pet them— hold them in his hand and stroke their hair until they fall asleep, like little baby rabbits, like the mice he used to find beneath the floorboards of his kitchen. They seemed to come to him, squeaking, and they were soft, for as long as they allowed themselves to be held. Whiskers and white fur; from above, the people don't look so different. 

But he can't move.

He sits on his knees in the mud, and the snow falls, a blinding white before his eyes, and he can't move. He can't breathe. There is something tightening around his neck. It burns on his skin. He begins to choke. He clutches at his throat, and he is no longer a boy, ten years old and dressed in white, but a giant, a monster, of steaming hot flesh and muscle, watching the people run as the noose strangles him.

Then he wakes.

Bertholdt gasps, snapping upright from where he lies. A mistake— his shoulder smacks into the seat of the bench he'd claimed as a bed for the night. He hisses, clutching at it, and blinks into the dim light of near dawn. He's on the floor, his coat wormed around his body like a sleeping bag, and he sits in a thin flurry of snow and frost that covers the theatre. The tarp sunk in overnight; an avalanche caved in one side, and the stage drips with fresh snow. The cadets lie sound asleep on benches outside of the impact zone, but the snow is still falling, and it drifts inside, flakes fluttering about the theatre.

He glances around. It must be near daybreak, but the sky is still cold and dark. He brushes snow off his lantern, which burned out sometime in the night, and he flicks his gaze to the bench across from him. Reiner is still sleeping, even with frost on his eyelashes. He's curled up in his coat, a sheet of wool draped over him. Bertholdt listens. Quiet, steady breathing. Peaceful, at last. 

The other cadets are still sleeping too, or at least pretending. They'll have to wake soon or Shadis will have their heads for breakfast. But for now, even though it's cold, it's still dark, and they stay tucked into their coats and covers, curled up on benches and slumbering for as long as they can. Between lessons and exams and rehearsal, they take as much sleep as they can get. 

Bertholdt runs a finger along the bench and dusts the snow off. He's awake, but his body feels heavy, lumbering. He wonders if he'll fall back asleep. But the uneasy worming in his stomach tells him no. Even when he closes his eyes, letting them fall shut under the weight of exhaustion, his mind still stirs. He is awake, until the next night comes and he shuffles along with it.

He rises in silence, shedding his coat, and he heads for the door of the theatre. The storm passed sometime in the night; he finds the streets brimming with snow when he steps outside, unbroken white roads in the darkness where he treads. He shivers. He tucks the cuffs of his green sweater over his hands and wraps his arms around himself. He trails listlessly down the narrow alley, his mind buzzing, his body aching. His only thought, away, away. The village is still quiet when he comes onto the main square, and his footprints are the only marks in the fresh snow. Sunrise is just beginning over the cliffs in the distance. Over Wall Rose, where it lies somewhere beneath the thick cover of white clouds. Out of sight, never out of mind.

He wanders. He keeps to the alleyways and sticks to the walls, being neither seen nor heard. He shuffles along without a lantern, finding his way as the earliest peaks of light begin to climb over the valley. It's still dark, always in midwinter, with the clouds gathering so thickly overhead and the snow still falling in mindless drifts. He walks until he comes to the edge of town, at the back road where the cobblestone stops and the grass is muddy with snow, where he stands and looks over the wintry fields, pale and unattended. Where he is alone, truly, in the middle of nowhere, with the wall watching him from somewhere along the horizon; where he no longer finds resistance to the tears that spring from his eyes. 

He sputters. Hot tears gush down his face. They burn like ice, and he sobs. It comes over him, all at once, like a tidal wave, flooding up from the pit in his gut, through his burning chest and out of him, tearing through his heart on its way. It leaves him shuddering and shaking; he drops to the ground, clambering, slowly, limb by limb, until he is sitting on the edge of the cobblestone road, his boots stuck in the frost. He sits, away from the rest of the world, and he cries.

Sunrise has peaked when Bertholdt finds his breath again. He takes it in, a slow gasp of the cold winter air. Then he lets it out once more, staring straight ahead. The drifting snowfall has let up at last. The clouds are still heavy, but through their wisps, he thinks he can see the sun. He comes to a silence. He sits with himself, arms crossed over his legs. He lets the tears dry on his face, shiny trails down his cheeks. His eyes hang heavy with purple bags, and his nose is red, though he hardly feels the cold at all. The snow beneath him has melted, and he sits in the dirt with his chin resting on his knees. Not much longer to go. Spring will come soon, and when all the snow melts, they will be gone.

He closes his eyes. He lets himself imagine drifting back to sleep. A peaceful sleep, like when he was a child, when he would fall asleep by the hearth and wake up in his bed, tucked warmly between the covers, when he could sleep through the night and always find someone to hug if he had a bad dream. 

A crunch in the snow. Bertholdt's eyes fly open. Someone is standing behind him. He thinks— no, he just wants to think— so he raises his head and glances over his shoulder. Annie is staring back at him. 

Taciturn, but there is the slightest movement of her muscles when he turns around, with tears on his cheeks. She hesitates. She tries not to let it show on her face.

But it does. Her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush, the slightest pink.

Bertholdt whips back around, unable to hold back the gasp as he clears his throat and tries to come up with some excuse. His hands fly to his face and he wipes away the traces of tears on his cheeks. His eyes suddenly feel raw, like open wounds. They must be red. He catches his breath, quietly, before he let his gaze flick back and follow Annie. 

The snow crunches under her black boots as she comes to stand at the end of the road, on the far side from him, next to a fencepost that marks the borders of the town. She toes a hardy weed standing tall through the frost, her coat hanging over her shoulders with the hood tucked over her head. She crosses her arms. She doesn't look at him. 

Bleak, meek, Bertholdt curls back into a ball and stares over the valley, watching the pale sunrise through the fog of his breath. The town will be coming to life soon, and the cadets will be on their way back to the compound. But it's still early, still only the hour of daybreak, and there is no other reason Annie will have found him out here alone. His stomach twists, and he wonders how long she's been watching him. She must have followed his footsteps through the snow. She must have something to say. He wipes away the last of his tears and wishes he didn't have to hear it.

He hears her knees crack as she bends, and the squish of snow on the ground as she sits, opposite him on the other end of the road. The grey sunrise continues to build over the valley. He thinks he hears, somewhere through the village, the first sign of life on a winter's day— the water well, a bucket dragged across the cobblestone street, and the whisper of children's voices, giggling at the snow they let melt through their fingers. He listens, but the children have gone quiet, or maybe they were not out at all. Maybe it is still too early, too cold, and the rest of the world has decided to stay warm and safe in their beds, while two warriors convene on the outskirts of town. 

“We need to talk,” she finally says.

Bertholdt wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin there. He watches her from the corner of his eyes, as she picks at the weed that grows by the old fencepost. She flicks it back and forth, like brushing a finger over a hot flame to see if it will burn her. He watches; when he says nothing, she carries on.

“I have some information,” she says, never looking at him. She flicks the plant. “Do you want to hear it?”

He turns his gaze away and closes his eyes. “Not right now.”

“Will you ever want to hear it?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, dull, affirmative, a duty. “Just not right now.”

He hears her sigh, hears the flick of her hand over the plant like a cat toy. Then a snip, and he opens his eyes, glancing back to her on the other side of the road. She’s toying with the weed, picking off tiny bits of its leaves, pinching them between her fingernails and squishing them into a green-brown paste. 

“Are you sure?” she asks drily. “It’s really juicy.”

Bertholdt’s jaw twinges. He curls up tighter, saying nothing. Permission granted. 

“I have a date in the capital,” Annie says. She digs a speck of the leaf out from under her thumbnail and flicks it into the snow. “Something to scope out. Someone. Are you in?”

“Who?” he asks, still watching her, but she does not budge.

“Are you in or not?”

He furrows his brow. “You’re not going to tell me?”

“You didn’t even want to hear it a few seconds ago,” she says. “I’ll tell you when you say you’re in.”

A second later, she turns her head sharply and meets his eyes. Her lips twitch when she adds, “Or not.”

Slowly, Bertholdt turns his gaze back over the cold, grey farmland. It could be nothing at the end of this road she’s found, and that’s why she doesn’t want to tell him. She could be following a dead end, and if it leads her nowhere, or right into a trap, then so be it for her. He wouldn’t be there to see her fail. He’s always thought to himself that Annie might prefer things that way: to work alone, to only rely on herself, to keep her own secrets, her own mistakes, her own judgments. He wonders what difference it makes that she’s asking him now, or if she’s only asking out of an obligation to duty. A mission to fulfill, now so near to the bitter end. It could be important after all— something in the capital. It could be what they’ve been searching for all these years, or at least a way forward. It could be nothing, or it could be everything.

“I hadn’t got all day,” she says in his long silence. “It’s a yes or no question.”

He sucks in a cold breath. “Is it time sensitive?”

She snorts. There is no other answer.

“Can it wait until after the festival is over?” he asks without looking at her. “Or winter? Can we just get through this, and then— maybe some of the snow will melt soon. It will be easier to get through to Wall Sina then. With the roads in the condition they are—”

“No,” Annie says. “Tomorrow.”

Bertholdt glances back at her. “Tomorrow? You mean—”

“During the festival,” she answers. She tears at the weed: an entire leaf. “I know, I know. You two have plans with your little friends. Tell Reiner to break a leg in his big debut.”

No, he wants to protest, it’s not like that. But he falls silent, a weight holding back his tongue, and he watches as Annie shreds the withering leaf between her fingers, then rolls her eyes.

“I figured as much,” she says after a moment. She dusts the shredded green into the snow at her feet. “Fine, I’ll go alone.”

He hesitates, then offers, “That’s a long way to travel alone.”

“It’s perfect,” she says, nearly talking over him. “Everyone will be distracted. They won’t notice if I’m not around. You’re all going to end up drunk in a tavern at the end of the night anyways. No one will know.”

He feels himself frown. “But will you be back in time? You’d have to leave early in the morning, and if you’re not back by the end of the night—”

“I’ll be back.” She stretches her legs out, scuffing up the snow under her boots. “It’s probably better I go alone anyways.”

She lets out a huff of her breath: white on the horizon.

“People would notice if you were gone,” she says. “No one will know if it’s just me.”

He looks at her: black boots scuffed with snow, stretched out in trails to reveal the frosty grass beneath, ice cold dew soaking into her civilian slacks; she sits with her white uniform coat pulled tighter over her shoulders, the furred hood falling back over her head to reveal blonde hair beneath. Her hair seems nearly frozen in the cold morning air, falling in straight strands like icicles, and she gazes, her head turned towards the horizon, where the sun is rising behind the grey clouds, where Wall Rose lies, a silent reminder of how far they’ve come. How far they may have yet to go. 

A faint shimmer of sunlight glistens through the cloud cover. Annie closes her eyes and lets it fall over her face, just for a second or two. Then the sky closes back up, and the cold dim of midwinter morning settles onto her again.

Bertholdt tugs at the collar of his green sweater, pulling it up over his chin. Cold, all of a sudden, even though the snow around his body has melted into the grass, revealing a dead wet green beneath him. He keeps an unsteady eye on her, hesitant.

“Will you tell me where you’re going?” he asks. “In case anything happens to you—”

“I’ll tell you when I get back,” she says. She doesn’t open her eyes. “There might not be anything useful for you to know. And the less complicated, the better.”

He knows what she means. In case anything happens to her— and nothing will, because Annie can save herself— but just in case, it’s better for him not to know the details. Better for him to know nothing of her plans or her whereabouts, or anything about her at all. If anything happens, they’ll meet at the interior rendezvous point. Or there will be a message. A sign. Or no message at all, and that will be the sign.

“We should talk when you get back,” Bertholdt says. “All three of us.”

She says nothing to that; no objection then, or at least none that she is willing to voice aloud. Nothing with cause. A triumvirate is, after all, routine and expected, although Bertholdt thinks, as he traces the toe of one boot in the snow, it has been a long time since they last met. 

It must have been early autumn, the last time the three of them snuck out at night and convened in secret at the edge of the woods. A harvest moon hung over the valley, the sky not yet muddled with winter rain and snow, and the winds were strong but warm, rustling fallen leaves across the forest floor and blowing through their hair. He remembers his silence, sitting with the heels of his boots digging into the dirt, and he remembers Annie’s questions, counterpoints, and challenges. He doesn't remember much of what Reiner said on that night, but he remembers how he acted— with amber moonlight in his hair and a bright gleam in his eyes, a life that neither Bertholdt or Annie shared; a certainty, a determination, and a cut in his voice when Annie argued with him.

And most of all, how quickly he fell asleep when they creeped back into the barracks: how tired he looked, suddenly, curled up in the dark, and the hand that crawled across their bunks to reach for Bertholdt. How he whimpered in his sleep, and how he softened when Bertholdt brushed three fingers through his hair. How he never quite settled, and how in the morning, he seemed altogether a different person. 

A cold breeze rushes over the road, and Bertholdt pulls his sweater tighter over his hands. He hears Annie suck in a breath. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rings. The beginning of another day. The heart of winter.

Then Annie glances at him and asks, “Can we trust him?” 

Bertholdt stares at the worn threads of his sweater for a moment, wondering what she is asking. Then he lifts his head, slowly, and he looks at her, something inside of him clenching. Her face remains stoic. But her gaze betrays her with an honesty that Bertholdt rarely sees. 

“Yes,” he breathes without thinking. “Of course we can.” 

We have to, he wants to say. We have to believe that we’ll survive this. 

She doesn’t flinch. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Bertholdt repeats, but she narrows her eyes.

“I need you to be sure,” Annie says. Her hands curl up in the sleeves of her hoodie. Uneasiness crosses her face, just for a second, just the twinge of her lips. 

“I need you to promise me that we can follow him without getting ourselves killed,” she says. “Because if it were up to me, we would have gone home three years ago. We would’ve never wasted all this time playing soldier.”

His breath comes in a fog. “It hasn’t all been a waste. I know it’s taken a long time, but we’ve learned a lot.”

“I know,” Annie says, and Bertholdt blinks. 

Something in her gaze softens. “That’s why you have to tell me now. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done as soon as we can leave without any loose ends. Training ends, we cover our tracks, and we go home.

“But if there’s anything left still worth fighting for,” she warns, “he’s going to want to fight for it. Neither of us will be able to stop him. It’ll be up to us to decide if we want to fight too.”

Annie stares into Bertholdt.

“So tell me now,” she says softly. “Promise me. Can we trust him?” 

Her gaze pierces him: cool and blue. He opens his mouth to say yes, of course; to repeat his undying loyalties for as long as she will listen. How could she even ask?

But he thinks back to last night, when Reiner cried on his shoulder into the cold hours of the morning. Reiner stood center stage and could never remember his lines. He thinks to last week, Reiner flirting with the village girls, to last month, Reiner shoving snowballs down Connie’s back. Last autumn, and the strange golden moonlight that shone in Reiner’s eyes, the changing winds of the seasons that rustled through his hair and made him look at Bertholdt differently. Last summer, when they had two weeks of leave between terms, when Reiner told the cadets they'd be visiting cousins on the other side of the valley and Bertholdt had to memorize the story as it was being told. Years ago, when Reiner rose haggard from the ground with blood and dirt in his hair, and he held their lives above their heads and led them into this trap.

But Bertholdt thinks further back, to the boy clad in white, the one with tears in his eyes. The boy who could hardly breathe at the end of each day, but who was still there the next. The boy with dirt on his knees, but the sun in his hair, and a smile so soft it made Bertholdt want to hold his hand and never let go. Reiner, who walked with him past the High Street shops, whose round eyes filled with gleeful curiosity when he peered at the little white mouse that Bertholdt scooped into his hands. Reiner, who grew, little by little, who always carried on, who never gave up, who always ended up in the dirt and still managed to get back up. Reiner, who spoke with him in secret whispers in the darkness, and who always made sure to drape Bertholdt’s blankets back over him when he fidgeted in the night. Reiner, who told him they would make it out of this one day. Reiner, who reminded him there was a life on the other side of the sea. Reiner, who loved him. 

Bertholdt purses his lips together. He lets Annie stare at him, the tightness in his chest welling up in his heart. 

He says, “I trust him.” 

She shifts her gaze away. She doesn’t move her head, but she blinks and looks at the horizon instead, her body still even as the cold wind rushes over them again. After a moment, she stands, adjusting the heavy coat she wears across her shoulders, and she turns to shuffle away in the snow, to follow her footprints back to the theatre.

“Shadis will be expecting us soon,” she tells him. “The others weren’t up when I left. But Mikasa was poking around. I guess we’ll be leaving soon.”

She kicks at a lump of snow. “Don’t follow me. Wait a few minutes to come back. But hurry up. You’ve got no reason to be wandering around at this hour.”

She stops just past the fencepost. She hesitates, standing there with her hands in her pockets and her gaze unsteady on the ground. Then she glances back to Bertholdt, one last time, her hair falling into her face.

“Look after him,” she says. Then she leaves. 

In the distance, another bell rings. The villagers will be rising soon: schoolchildren racing through the fresh snow to get to class on time, and shopkeepers opening their doors, inviting customers in from the cold. Bertholdt sits at the edge of town, his arms folded over his knees. He stares across the horizon. He sighs. Then he stands too, slipping his hands into his pockets, and he trails back to the theatre. 

The cadets have woken, throwing their coats on and packing their bags to return to the compound; they pile blankets back into the costume closet and sweep snow from the stage, lest the director be irate at the dress rehearsal tonight. Their lanterns all fizzled out in the night, but they won't need them now that the snowstorm has stopped. Bertholdt slips in unnoticed through a back door and returns to his bench. He pack his bag quietly; all the while, he watches Reiner.

Across from him, Reiner moves slowly, limberly, rolling up blankets with cold fingers and staring listlessly as he fidgets with the buckles on his bag. He sits on his knees, his coat hanging halfway off his shoulders, his hair mussed from a fitful and teary sleep. The cadets move out, and Bertholdt trails over to Reiner, bag slung over his shoulder. He bends slightly, one hand reaching out. He touches Reiner's shoulder, and he gets a start, a little jump, a blinking glance up from the floor as if Bertholdt has woken him from a deep sleep. 

Bertholdt rubs his shoulder. "Stand up, Reiner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! we are about three quarters finished with this fic. this is the shortest chapter so far, but it was the hardest to write. i hope you're all looking forward to reiner's stage debut. i'll see you there 👀


	9. ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How strange, how serendipitous, that it is the cold midwinter we strive to cast out on this night. How strange indeed that it is the cold midwinter that brings us together."

Snow drifts over the training compound. It blows lazily in the chill winter wind, swirling towards the ground in slow spirals. A little more snow won’t make much difference this deep in winter, especially after the blizzard that blanketed the valley not two days ago. Bertholdt sits, chin in hand, and watches the snow fall through the classroom window; his bored gaze fixates on the flakes, silence ringing in his ears. Around him, the other cadets slumber similarly, tired for last night’s dress rehearsal— a promising success in all regards, but an exhausting measure, trekking back and forth from the town twice in one day after they’d spent the previous night snowed in at the theatre. Shadis had not forgiven them for missing curfew, though he would have been equally harsh if they’d risked their comrades’ lives in the storm. And so, on the morning of the Solstice Stage Festival, the 104th find themselves slumped in a classroom enduring another first aid lecture, rather than the leave for community relations they had been originally promised.

Tap, tap.

Bertholdt blinks and glances around to the front of the classroom. Their instructor stands with an open book in one hand, a piece of chalk in the other, tapping on the board to draw their attention back to her. Her measure is only partially successful; the cadets look up, but her nervous smile tells them she won’t really call them out. She hardly even knows their names.

She taps on the chalkboard again.

“We were talking about frostbite,” she says, staring at them. “Is everyone paying attention?”

A low mumble echoes through the cadets.

She gestures to the diagram on the chalkboard: a vaguely human looking figure, with nubby appendages, dotted eyes, and a lopsided smile. 

“Can anyone describe the symptoms of superficial frostbite?” she asks them. Tap, tap on the chalkboard. “What happens to the skin?”

The cadets stare back in silence. Bertholdt flicks his gaze back to the window, to the light snowfall drifting around in the wind.

“Alright, let’s hear from Cadet Arlert, again.” 

In the seat across the aisle from Bertholdt, Connie groans and slumps back in his chair, his arms crossed. In the row before him, Jean sits with his eyes glazing over as he stares listlessly at the chalkboard, and beside him, even Marco, ever a diligent student, seems to have lost his concentration. His pencil moves in his notebook as he doodles over his notes, drawing endless circles as the lesson drones on.

“Early frostbite isn’t usually permanent,” Armin states matter-of-factly from where he sits next to Bertholdt. “The patient may lose feeling in the affected area of the skin, and in some cases, they may develop blisters, or the skin may harden.”

The instructor nods. “Excellent. What about deep frostbite? The more severe affliction.”

The pretense of a pause before she lets Armin answer again.

“Third and fourth-degree frostbite can penetrate down to the bone,” he explains. “This kind of damage is irreversible. The skin dies and may turn black. Toes and fingers may have to be amputated, or in some extreme cases, appendages will decay and fall off on their own.”

Connie gags.

“Deep frostbite can result in gangrene. It’s typically fatal.”

“So,” the instructor asks, “what can we do to prevent injuries from the cold? Like frostbite and hypothermia, which we talked about a few days ago.”

She scans the classroom. “Cadet Diamant, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

A squeak from the back of the classroom. Hannah jerks upright, a hand flying to her mouth to cover the sweet nothings that she’s been whispering into Franz’ ear for the entire lesson. Some of the cadets snicker, and others sit a little straight in their seats. Perhaps the instructor knows their names after all.

“Um,” Hannah says, then clears her throat. “To prevent frostbite— stay warm? Wear layers of clothing and cover your head.”

“What material is recommended for protective layers?”

“Um, wool. And leather?” 

“What about cotton?” Tap on the chalkboard. “In wet snowy conditions like these, would it be safe to wear cotton on an expedition?”

“Um…”

Franz’ hand shoots into the air. “Wool is preferred! Cotton doesn’t provide the same insulation.”

The instructor nods. “Maybe we were paying attention after all. What else can be done to prevent hypothermia?”

Mikasa raises a curt hand. “Avoid getting wet.”

A bark of laughter sounds from the back row. Bertholdt recognizes it as Ymir’s. The other cadets twitter, and the instructor smiles uneasily. 

“Yes, you should avoid, uh— moisture, as much as you can. It can increase the rate at which hypothermia sets in. Any other ideas?”

Someone mutters, “Don’t sleep in an open theatre with snow coming down on top of you.

The instructor raises an eyebrow at them. “Anyone else? What about staying well-fed? Food can keep you warm too, especially if you’re on a long expedition.”

She turns a page in her book, letting the classroom simmer down into silence again, before she glances back up at them.

“We learned about thermal burns a few weeks ago,” she says. “Can anyone describe some of the similarities and differences between a heat burn and a cold burn, like frostbite?”

When no one volunteers, save Armin, who half-heartedly raises a hand knowing she will not call on him again to save his classmates, she starts looking around the classroom for an unwilling participant to coax into speaking. Her eyes skip past Armin, who silently lowers his hands, and she lands on Bertholdt. She squints at him, like his name is on the tip of her tongue. After a pause, she settles for just a title.

“Cadet,” she asks. “What could cause a heat burn?” 

Bertholdt purses his lips. “Um. Heat.”

From the back of the room, Ymir guffaws.

“Okay,” the instructor says, giving him a strained smile. “Can you be more specific? What situations might you encounter as a soldier that would present a burn risk?” 

He shifts upright in his seat, his thumb brushing over the back of his left hand: smooth skin, where a scar should have been. "Working with fire, or hot water. Hot steam. Soldiers who work in the Garrison smithy are at higher risk for burn injuries. Or, um, anyone who regularly uses 3DMG. The belt box is known to cause heat friction that can spark and burn the skin."

The instructor’s eyes light up. “Oh, excellent! That’s a great reminder for you all as you’re coming to the end of your training. 3DMG misuse and malfunction causes most of the injuries we see. Well, um, at least in my branch, in the Garrison.”

She flips another page in her book. "Could anyone remind us the method for treating burns? Um, alright, Arlert again." 

"The first step is to remove the patient from exposure to the source," Armin explains. "Put out the fire, or move away from the hot steam or liquid. Remove any smoldering material, or any restricting clothing, including 3DMG. With severe burns, clothing may stick to the skin, but that's dangerous to handle in the field. It's better left to a hospital."

"Excellent. Then?"

"Run the burn under cool water, or use a cold compress. Then wrap with a clean cloth and seek further treatment, if needed."

The instructor nods. “So, heat burns can be caused by everyday tasks, like tending the fire. But frostbite is more common than you might think. If you’re on patrol with the Garrison or the Military Police, you may encounter civilians who are suffering from frostbite. What are the risk factors for developing frostbite?”

The snow continues to fall, and Bertholdt turns his gaze back to the window, staring out across the training compound, covered in white and sulking under a cloudy grey sky. It must be midday, but it’s just as dark as if it was dawn. The cadets are dismissed from the lecture once their participation dwindles to a pathetic level and the instructor realizes she’s not saving anyone from hypothermia if they’re not listening to her. They tug their heavy coats on and trudge out into the winter day, headed straight for the canteen. They’ll have lunch together, and then they’ll be released from their training for the rest of the day. For community relations.

On an afternoon when they would typically be sharpening their blades, the cadets will tread back into the village to enjoy the delights of the local street fair, before taking to the theatre for the stage show at sundown. Unbridled giddiness overcomes them on their sprint to lunch; where the festival was once a chore, it’s now the most exciting part of their day, and the performance tonight has them all eager to get off the compound. Tomorrow, the steadfast among them may deny that they ever delighted in taking part in the play, but for tonight, there are only good times ahead: a festival, a show, and a cast party at the locals’ favorite tavern, sanctioned by Shadis, who has even given them leave for tomorrow morning lest they’re too hungover to walk straight. Bertholdt has a feeling they are waltzing into one of his traps, and they may find themselves scrubbing toilets for the rest of the term after all.

Bertholdt trails at the back of the pack, watching each footprint he makes in the snow; by the time he reaches the canteen, the cadets are brimming with a new excitement. A small crowd has gathered at the notice board near the door, and they whisper to each other excitedly before racing to grab their hot meals.He follows Armin to the board, where Christa stands apart from a pack of the other cadets, peering at a long piece of paper while the others crowd around another notice.

“The class ranks have been posted,” Christa explains when she sees them. “And the calendar for our final term. It looks like these are as good as final, unless someone drops out.”

Armin leans in to read the ranks: a scrawled list that would be nearly indecipherable to anyone not familiar with Shadis’ haggard handwriting. He blinks.

“Oh, wow,” he says, glancing around at Christa. “You’re in the top ten!”

She gives him a curt smile. “It’s probably just the difference of a few points. I’m sure it could have easily been anyone else over me.”

“Still,” Armin says, “you earned those few points. That’s something to be proud of. Look, you even beat Ymir!”

“Mm-hmm,” Christa hums. She purses her lips. “I should go tell her the good news.”

Bertholdt takes her place as she trots off, and he leans in to read the list, wrapping his arms around himself to pull his sweater tighter. The rankings of the top ten come as no real surprise, though Christa is right about it being a matter of small numbers now: there are several ties remaining to be resolved, a dilemma that will only be determined by their grades on the final exam. Otherwise, everything seems to have settled into the expected order. Mikasa comes first, easily, and Reiner takes second, sending Bertholdt back down to third place. He finds that fitting. A strange comfort, to be put back in his place.

The list trails down the notice board, and the paper crinkles under Armin’s finger when he taps a name near the bottom.

“Ah,” he says. “Finally, there I am. All the way down here.”

Bertholdt follows his finger: low, but not last. “You could have done worse.”

“Ha,” Armin barks, glancing up at Bertholdt with his brow slightly furrowed. “I guess so.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” Bertholdt says quickly. “I just meant— well, you’ve always gotten top marks in the classroom. So that makes up for… everything else.”

He trails off before he says something else stupid.

“It’s alright,” Armin says, smiling. “I’m just happy I made it this far. I don’t know how I survived the first few months of training. I thought I’d never graduate.”

He looks at Bertholdt. “It was probably thanks to you and Reiner. You two helped me out a lot.”

“Oh.”

“I wonder where he is,” Armin says, glancing over his shoulder. “I think he’ll be happy to hear that he’s stolen second place back from you.”

Bertholdt gives a waning smile. “If only he could wring first out of Mikasa’s grasp.”

“I don’t think anyone can do that.” Armin glances back to the list. He frowns. "Oh no. I better catch Eren before he finds out he's tied for fourth with Jean."

He turns on his heel. Bertholdt shuffles to the other side of the notice board, where Hannah and Franz are holding onto each tightly while Jean and Connie make a poor attempt at concealing their annoyance. The term calendar has been updated, detailing the next months of training for all years. The first and second-year cadets will train through the summer, but for the third-years, training ends in spring. They will take their final exams, in the classroom, on the course, and then they'll graduate. Gone, forever. 

"Our last training expedition," Hannah reads tearfully from the calendar. She clutches Franz' hand in hers as she reads. "Our exams, our graduation, and— our disbanding ceremony!"

At that, she bursts into tears, burying her head into the palms of her hands. Her boyfriend dutifully and solemnly wraps his arms around her, leading her away with soothing words. With a sigh of relief, Jean steps up to the calendar and scans it.

"So that's it," he says after a moment. "Just a few more months, and by the end of spring, the 104th will be disbanded."

He stands still and quiet, and Bertholdt glances over his shoulder to peer at the calendar too. Just a few more months, and by the time the last snow melts, it will all be over. He sighs, a breath of relief, but something still draws tension between his shoulders and he can't quite place it. It gnaws at him, aching like an open wound. Then Jean yelps, and Bertholdt jumps, holding his breath. Connie has one arm around Jean's shoulders, squeezing him into a lopsided headlock. 

"What are you doing?" he chokes. He swats at Connie's arm. "Get off me!"

"We're almost out of here!" Connie exclaims with glee. He grins even after Jean wrestles himself free and shoves him away. "It's straight to the interior after this, boys!"

He steps back, glancing between Jean and Bertholdt. "We'll still see each other, won't we? Even if we join different squads— Bertholdt, Reiner said you two are going for Stohess. I'm still making up my mind between that and Ehrmich. I'd be closer to home in Ehrmich, but I've heard that Stohess gets the best assignments. But I'm sure we'll still run into each other!"

Jean glares at him. "You don't get to choose, idiot. You end up wherever they have room for you."

"Hang on, Reiner said you get a preference," Connie exclaims. He whips around to Bertholdt with wide eyes. "Don't you get a preference?"

Bertholdt hesitates. "Ah, well, I don't know what Reiner said, but you can, um, pull some strings, I think. If you have a favorable review from your training commander."

Connie's face falls flat. "Oh, no. I have to ask Shadis to recommend me? He's going to suggest I join the Survey Corps as titan bait."

"You'll know at least one person there," Jean grumbles, still threading fingers through his hair in an attempt to flatten Connie's damage. "Mikasa's not going to join with him, is she? She can't do that. She's the first in our class, for fuck's sakes. She belongs in the interior." 

"Don't worry, Jean," Connie says, smiling again. "I'll ask Shadis to recommend Mikasa to the same squad as you. Then you'll never get to lust after her again!"

"I'm not lusting!" 

The mess hall buzzes as the third-years devour their lunch. The promise of the end of training instills a new life into them, an energy that will see them through their last term. It will be the hardest term yet; their instructors will push them to their limits to prepare them for the unpredictable world. But the struggle will be worth it, when spring comes anew and they head to their first posts, starting new lives and ensuring success for their futures.

The day is still young when the cadets make their final trek to the village, but it will not belong before midwinter draws the deepest night of the year over the valley; the sun, hidden behind the clouds, falls quickly, and soon the darkness will set in. The cadets wrap themselves in coats, scarves, and gloves to trudge through the snow. They arrive in the village just as the festivities are beginning. The Solstice Stage Festival will end at the theatre with the talent show, but it begins here, in the streets of the village, between the crooked houses and the market stalls. The morning's snowfall has dusted the roads white; snowflakes flutter at children's feet as they scurry through the main square, their boots leaving tiny tracks for their parents to follow. The square comes alive with light: lanterns strung overhead and candles lining the water well. Shopkeepers' booths sell pretty things to make the winter feel brighter, ribbons and trinkets and sweets in warm colors. The people share hot drinks to keep themselves warm, trailing hand-in-hand through the streets, staying close to fight the chill, the darkness that creeps in as the sun begins to set.

Bertholdt trails alongside Reiner. He remains quiet on the way into town, his hands tucked into his pockets. His boots trod slowly, wanderingly, his mind elsewhere, his thoughts occupied no doubt with anticipation of tonight's performance. They walk behind the other cadets, who stumble through the square in awe at the transformation of the tiny quiet village into a glittering wonderland. The others lose them in the crowd. Bertholdt stays close, quiet, as Reiner meanders into the village, moving in a routine observation from one booth to the next, in silence. 

He leaves prints in the snow: his footsteps, here and there, one, two. Bertholdt follows them. With his scarf tucked over his mouth, his head downturned, he steps into the prints as he walks behind Reiner. The sun is going down. He eclipses the tracks as he trails behind, one, two, his boots a size too big. He traces Reiner's path around the square, once, then twice, endless and quiet, the knot in Bertholdt's stomach tying into itself again each time they pass over. They have been here before. They are here again, yet again. How much longer will this go on? 

The toe of his boot treads on Reiner's heel. 

Bertholdt starts, a startled hum mumbling from behind his scarf. He mutters an apology and turns his head up to see where they have landed, suddenly, without explanation, after another restless turn around the square as the sun sets over the wall. 

Reiner stands at a shopkeepers' booth. The seller is distracted, selling charms to a pair of village girls who pester him with question. He does not see the pair of soldiers standing there, a strange silence turning between them. Reiner looks, his gaze distracted, his brow furrowed. Bertholdt follows his gaze to see: a woven basket on the table, full of furry white charms, sitting pretty amongst the wooden trinkets and charms. 

"Oh," Bertholdt murmurs. He pulls his scarf down to speak. "Rabbit's foot. Or feet, I guess." 

He shuffles off a glove to pluck one from the basket, the soft white fur tickling his fingers. It jingles; tiny bells have been sew onto the end, making music as Bertholdt holds it up for them to see.

"Should I buy you one?" he asks, smiling at Reiner. "For good luck tonight." 

Gaze downturned, Reiner ignores him. He reaches out, one gloved finger, and pokes one of the charms in the basket until its bells jingles. Then he stops, hand in midair. 

"Funny," he murmurs into the night, so softly that Bertholdt hardly hears him. "I didn't know these people did that too." 

Bertholdt glances up. He parts his lips, mouth open, but Reiner turns his back, trawling listlessly to the next booth with his hands in his pockets. Bertholdt stares after him, wondering if he should give chase: a driftless figure in the snow, before he trails off, disappearing into the crowd. The knot in Bertholdt's stomach twists tighter: one, two, shouting inside of him like a siren that he should not ignore— an omen. 

He feels two boots step into place beside him, and he glances back to find Connie suddenly beside him. He furrows his brow when he sees the charm in Bertholdt's hand. He stretches onto his tiptoes to whisper at Bertholdt.

"Don't buy that," he hisses. "The prices here are criminal! Sasha can make you one for two weeks' of bread at dinner." 

"Noted," Bertholdt mutters, as the seller's cane clicks on the cobblestone in his approach. 

"Searching for a lucky charm, young soldier?" the old man croaks at them from behind the booth. "Or maybe one for a special someone? In this region of the walls, the rabbit's foot is said to bring good fortune to young lovers!"

"Oh, no," Bertholdt says. The bells jingle as he drops the rabbit's foot back into its basket. "I don't know if I believe in all that anyways."

The old man gives him a toothless gin. "Why not believe? We've all seen stranger things come true."

Connie snorts, lifting the mug of cider he holds in one hand. Behind him, another pair of soldiers pull through the crowd, steaming mugs cupped in their gloved hands: Jean, with his hood pulled over his ears and his scarf tucked up to his pink nose, and Marco, who beams at the sight of his comrades. 

"Oh, Bertholdt, there you are," he exclaims when they approach the booth. "We've been looking for you and Reiner! Everyone else is over by the well, playing that dice game. I don't know how to do it. Connie tried to teach us."

"He's not very good at giving directions," Jean mumbles behind his scarf.

Connie whips around at them. "Hey, it's not my fault you guys aren't cultured! Look, Bertholdt knows what I'm talking about. Everyone on this side of Wall Rose knows that a rabbit's foot is the best good luck charm out there. Right, Bertholdt?" 

Jean pulls his scarf down and cranes forward to get a good look. "What? Gross. Is it a real rabbit's foot?"

"Oh, I see," Marco says. He sips at his cider. "They're, um, cute." 

"Wait, what is—" Jean stops short. He leans in to a wooden box that sits open at the center of the booth, then recoils, going pale. "What is _that?"_

"Oh, ho," the old man exclaims. He shuffles to the center, his cane clicking on the ground, and he turns his attention to the small box that draws the boys' gazes. "That, my boy, is a fabled hand o' glory."

Bertholdt furrows his brow. "A what?" 

The old man does not answer. Bent in half over his cane, he reaches out with his wrinkly hand to prop open the lid of the box to give the soldiers a better look. They crane forward with curious eyes, and one of by one, each of them recoils in shock, in disgust, for inside the box, laid between the little trinkets and charms for sale, lies a blackened, shriveled, human hand. 

Connie blanches. "Is that—"

"That's a real hand," Jean exclaims. His voice cracks. "Is that a _real hand?"_

"Oh," Marco says brightly, peering between them to get another look. "The hand of glory is said to be a really rare good luck charm. I don't know if I'd want one made from someone else's hand though. Is that real?"

"Ugh," Connie exclaims. "First gangrene, now this!" 

Jean turns to the old man. "Tell me that's not a real human hand. That _has_ to be illegal." 

The old man lifts his lantern. The flames cast a sickly yellow light over the box, the lid propped open to reveal the shriveled limb inside; the candlelight sends shadows dancing across his face as he speaks and the cadets listen, transfixed.

"The hand o' a hanged man," he explains in a low voice. "It's said to bring great fortune to its keeper." 

He glances up sharply, turning his dark gaze on them. 

"But beware," he warns. "The hand o' glory is the hand o' a murderer. One who has done a terrible evil. Keep it close, lest it turn on you too." 

He pauses. One by one, the cadets seem to lean in, their gazes fixed on the shriveled old hand, drawn in by its mysterious power. Then the old man lets out a yelp. The cadets careen backwards, gasping for air. Connie yells and nearly drops his cider. Jean covers his mouth and turns away, trying not to gag. Marco leans on the booth, pink in the face, and glances up.

He asks weakly, "That's not actually a real hand, is it?"

The old man barks with laughter as he sets his lantern down. "Course not! Where'm I supposed to get the hand o' a hanged man? You don't see any hangin' around, do you? Ha!"

He reaches into the box without regard— Jean gags— and lifts the so-called hand into the air. When he swings it back and forth, it flaps easily in the wind.

"Just papier-mâché and a bit o' paint," the old man confirms. "We use it to scare the kids. Tell 'em, if you don't listen to your mama, you'll get the old hanged man's hand!" 

Connie lets out a humiliated groan. From behind him, someone scoffs, and the cadets turn their gazes to find Timo, with his hands in his pockets and his cloak hood pulled over his head; he stands in the snow, watching them with a wary smile. The old man hobbles away to tend to a family who approaches the booth, customers who might actually buy something, and Timo trudges towards them. 

"You guys know he was just having you on, right?" he asks, glancing at them with one eyebrow raised. "All those charms and stuff— nobody around here really believes in any of that."

Connie huffs. "Of course, we knew that."

Timo squints at him. "Right."

"Oh, come on," Jean grumbles, glaring at Connie. "You were just _oohing_ and _ahhing_ to Bertholdt about the power of a rabbit's foot."

"A rabbit's foot is a real good luck charm," Connie exclaims, turning on him. His boots send dusts of snow flying. "I swear, those work! Right, Bertholdt? Isn't that why you picked it up?" 

He snaps his fingers. "Hey, Bertholdt!" 

Bertholdt opens his eyes. The town square unfolds before him, the snow-dusted streets and the yellow lantern lights, a street full of people under a starry blue sky, and four pairs of eyes, turned on him, staring up with a mix of curiosity and bemusement. He blinks. He swallows the dryness at the back of his throat. The lump, the knot in his stomach, one, two. 

"Oh," he says softly, and the cadets look away, Jean rolling his eyes. "Sorry, what?"

"I'll give you a pass for the rabbit's foot," Timo tells Connie. "Everything else here is a load of shit." 

Connie elbows Jean. "See?" 

"So what? It's the amputated foot of a rabbit! How can that be good luck?" 

Their boots trace tracks on the snowy street as they move on, trailing forward through the crowded festival. Timo leads them, a guiding village voice in the busy crowd. At his word, they slip between milling people to find the best stalls and the local delights: tiny handcrafted figurines of wood and tin, painted with delicate strokes in vibrant colors; wool scarves and hats, sheared from the sheep in the fields that lie below the wall, soft as clouds; and stalls of food, dough that stretches an arm's length, mulled wine brewed for days, and candied fruits of the summer, saved all year for the coldest night. The boys buy sticky doughnuts and eat them as they walk, licking the cinnamon sugar from their frozen fingers. 

Bertholdt follows. He blinks through the lantern light as the last glimmers of sun fall low over Wall Rose in the distance. The day fades out, and a new chill sets in, winter winds sweeping through the streets with the nightfall. For once, there is a clear winter sky; the stars begin to shine, wheeling over his head with the turn of the world, and though the moon still hides behind a herd of white clouds, its silver light casts the faintest glow over the land: a dim promise of something more to come. He watches the stars, his feet moving mindlessly behind the others— inside his head, the constellations, woven with imaginary thread to tell the tales of generations past: the heroes, the villains, the beasts, and the tragic endings. A tragic ending, always, in the great tales; tragedy is what makes a hero. 

Another cold wind blows. The crowd grows as villagers arrive from the surroundings hamlets, and the cadets turn to head towards the theatre. Amid the mass of people, they find some of the others, and they funnel together through the crowd in an attempt to escape the square. Bertholdt lets his gaze search among them. His stomach twists.

"Has anyone seen Reiner?" he asks finally, breaking his voice over the wind and the noise.

Connie and Sasha tear at their last doughnut. It stretches between their fingers in a long string until it breaks apart, and Connie pops a bite into his mouth, glancing at Bertholdt. "Not since we got here. Hey, has anyone seen Reiner?" 

The crowd stalls ahead of them, and hardly anyone hears. There are only so many shortcuts through the small town, and the cadets move slowly, their boots scraping on the cobblestone as they take short steps through the crowd, their fingers getting cold, their hot drinks empty. Beneath their arms, a sudden giggle: and a team of children tear between them, their heads ducked to let them zip through the crowd with ease. One of them, a girl with a pink nose and a furry hat tucked down over her ears, doubles back to throw herself at Timo, who stumbles back with an _oof_ and treads on Bertholdt's toes. 

"Marta," he groans. "Get off me!"

She clings to his cloak as she stands on his feet. "Are these your new friends? The soldiers?" 

Connie forces down his doughnut and nudges Timo. "Aw, are we friends now?" 

"Shut up," he mutters. He unwraps the girl's fingers from his cloak and sets her aside. "This is my little sister. The one you called a brat. You weren't wrong, by the way."

"Oh, come on," Connie exclaims, his eyes widening. "You almost fought me over that and now you're just going to admit I was right!?"

Marta paws at Timo's cloak as he argues with Connie. The crowd moves, a sudden wave of footsteps on the snowy street, and then she is beside Bertholdt, blinking up at him with wide eyes. Her disheveled braids peek out from beneath her furry cap. The crowd moves again, and she snatches up Bertholdt's left hand. Her tiny fingers barely fit around two of his. 

"Don't worry," she exclaims up at him. She beams, her face pink from the cold. "I won't let you get lost!"

Bertholdt blinks. "Um—"

"Marta," Timo barks over his shoulder. "Stop being weird!"

"I am not!" she cries. She squeezes Bertholdt's hand. "He asked me to hold his hand!"

"No, he didn't! Leave him alone!" 

The streets of the village begin to clear, and the cadets head through the night to the theatre. They are late, as is expected of them by now, and preparations for the performance are fully underway: singers practicing their scales, jokers finding balance on their stilts, and the backstage crew, running everything behind the scenes, pulling props and ropes and mirrors into place for the final show. They have spent many weeks of winter waiting for this moment, and tonight, it arrives: the show, the pinnacle of the Solstice Festival, and the height of joy a deep midwinter. A light in the dark.

The cadets split off, attending to their various roles. Bertholdt frees his hand from the vice of Timo's little sister and climbs the familiar stairs to the catwalk, where the rafters are waiting for him. The performance is routine after weeks of work, but everything feels a little different tonight. The pulleys are harder to manage, the mirrors a dead weight in his arms as the crew runs through the spotlight cues in quick succession. From above, he hears the director give his final notes to the performers. He listens, like an echo, like a dream. So far below, so far away. 

The candles are lit. Lanterns line the edge of the stage. The time draws closer, and the director calls them down for one final word of encouragement. He stands before them on the stage, leaning over his cane and smiling down from behind his half-moon glasses. When he speaks, they all fall silent.

"What a year," he exclaims. "What a winter!"

He speaks with certainty, finality. From the back of the theatre, Bertholdt watches, but not the stage. His gaze fixes on Reiner: a solitary figure among the players, dressed in costume, a dashing vest that pulls too tight across his shoulders but somehow, when he leans against the wall and closes his eyes like that, looks ill on him, like a costume meant for someone else. 

"But now, at last," the director continues, "we find ourselves here. On the longest night of the year, when the darkness draws so heavily over the land that it seems like it might be the point of no return— we find ourselves here. Together, on the stage. Together, in song, in music, in poetry. Together with our friends, old and new. Tonight, we light this theatre with joy. Tonight, we honor those who have come before us."

He turns his gaze on them, blue and austere. 

"How peculiar," he speaks, a whisper, an echo. "How strange, how serendipitous, that it is the cold midwinter we strive to cast out on this night. How strange indeed that it is the cold midwinter that brings us together."

His words linger over the theatre, hovering like a chill in the air. He pauses, gazing over them. For a moment, they wait for him to continue: another grand speech. In the silence, he simply shakes his head.

"I will say no more," the director tells them. "Indeed, there is no more for me to say! No more to be done but to carry on with this magnificent show that we have put together! My work is finished. The rest, dear friends, is up to you!"

The players stand to applaud him. Bertholdt claps, the thunder ringing in his ear; his eyes are on Reiner, who hardly seems to notice the commotion, who stands and slips backstage, unnoticed by the others. 

But the show must go on. 

And it is not half an hour later that the doors of the theatre burst open, admitting a flood of villagers who march inside. The Solstice Stage Festival is a year in the making, a year in the waiting, and the townspeople pack into the theatre in throngs, bursting with anticipation as they squeeze onto the benches; they spill onto the floors and line up against the walls, all to get a good view of the stage. A clear winter sky of dark blue shines down on them through the open roof, the first night without snow in weeks. The cold wind blows, but inside, with the people, with the lanterns, with the spectacle onstage, it does not leave a chill.

The show opens to raucous applause, and the opening act, a well-known ballad of love sung by two village young 'uns sends the audience soaring into high spirits, singing along and swinging their mugs of cider. Above, in the catwalks, Bertholdt sits in silence with his mirror; his legs hang from the rafters, and he watches, reverie, at the little people who dance upon the stage, who take each other's arms and swing in circles until they stumble dizzily to take their bows. The applause echoes in his ears. Up to the rafters, up to the moonlight, the stars, burning overhead. The next act goes on: a dance, a jig, and he moves his mirrors in time with the music, the spotlight beaming across the stage. It casts shadow behind the dancers as they move, a step, one, two, a twirl, a darkness beneath their feet, below. 

The villagers sing along to every word. Then the next act comes on, an older woman bent in half with a shawl over her back, and they quiet down into hushed silence, holding their cider mugs close, grasping at each other's hands. She takes center stage and she speaks: a recitation, a poem, an old one that everyone in this part of Wall Rose knows by heart. It is a tragedy, as all stories are, and she sells it, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the tale, her toes tapping in time to the beat, one, two, as the townspeople sit transfixed by the same story they hear every year. She takes her bow slowly, struggling to keep herself upright; the thunder through the theatre sounds like no other, the villagers howling and whistling and crying at the story they know so well, at her breaths and her words, each spoken with purpose, each spoken in time. Dimly, Bertholdt hears the stagehand below order a moment of silence before the next performer takes the limelight: a moment of peace as the audience catches their breaths and wipes away their tears. 

It is Christa who comes on next, the first cadet to take the stage; she sings a song of spring, a lilting melody that lifts the hearts of the villagers and has them swaying in time in their seats, smiles on their faces again. These are the highs and lows of the show, the director has told them countless times: a comedy, a tragedy, a song that will make them dream of somewhere else. There is a rhythm in all things, he said, one, two, and the stage is no exception. 

The show bustles through the first half, and when it comes to intermission, Bertholdt collapses back on his heels, the spotlight mirror nearly slipping out of his arms. He blinks, a weight hanging heavily behind his eyes. He sets the mirror aside to be picked up again for the second half of the show; for a moment, he sees himself— dark eyes, blue in the moonlight. A thick rope hanging behind his head. 

Bertholdt shuffles downstairs, squeezing through the narrow doorway. He starts, a gasp escaping him when a stagehand sprints by. Backstage erupts with chaos, players and singers and musicians changing costumes and snatching up props and instruments for the second half of the show. He spies Jean, being fitted into his costume with a feather in his cap; the dance troupe, the girls with their hair in braids, and Mina glancing around, searching for someone; and all the others, too, making last minute alterations or standing by on curtain duty. He leans back against the door, sleep weighing heavily on him; less than an hour left, and then this will all over. Only springtime left, and then this will all be over.

_Slam._

The director's cane slaps the wooden floor as he hobbles backstage.

"What do you mean?" he exclaims to the stagehand at his side. "The show is going on in just five minutes! Where is he?"

"I swear I saw him," the stagehand protests. "He was here at call, or at least I thought so!" 

"Cadets," the director barks. He waves his cane in the air. "We've lost one of your own! One of you has to track him down before it's his turn onstage!"

"Huh?" Connie exclaims, blinking up from behind the piano. "Who?"

"Our hero!" the director cries. "Where has he run off to?" 

Bertholdt stands upright. His heart clenches. He turns on his heel— rising urgency, panic, everything moving much too slowly, as if he walks underwater, as if he is in a dream, as he turns, the knot in his stomach tying in on itself and he starts for the stage door. The back door, the one behind the stairs, the one where a person could slip out unseen, unheard, unwanted. 

He barrels through the door and stumbles into the darkness. Cold wind rushes over him. He gasps, blinking around at the narrow alleyway he finds himself in. The snow is set deeply here, untouched— save for a single set of footprints, fleeing into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long chapter is long


	10. x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only Marley could see their great warriors now: heartless and weeping, bleeding into the snow and losing themselves. A failed experiment. A tragedy. 

In the deep midwinter, the valley sleeps.

Inky black skies slumber behind a shade of clouds, a wall of snow and mist as thick as stone, crystal, tissue— a curtain that drapes over the stars to fell darkness across the land. The village slumbers beneath a silent snowfall. The red roofs and cobblestone streets lie quietly, nestled in one small corner of the valley, peering over the fields that hibernate beneath blankets of unbroken white. The wind sweeps low over the land, tracing its familiar trail to brush across chimes and chimneys. The forests, the rivers, ancient and quiet beneath the endless sky, the sleepy reverie of wintertime.

But sometimes, there are clear nights. Sometimes the flurries of winter rush through to startle the land. Cold wind tousles the fields, leaving invisible tracks in the snow. Flags beat in the breeze; a storm howls, a blizzard. The clouds part: an unforgiving grey guard cracking open as the light of the moon breaks its way through, like a beam, a spotlight in the black night. A midnight, a solstice. The light glares on the silvery land, the village roofs, the crooked stone streets. Too strong too bright, too awesome to stay hidden. 

The cloud cover fractures, and the sky comes crashing down, a black, a blue, with stars pinned to its folds as it falls on the horizon, crumbling over the land, the wall. White points in the dark, the stories of old. The myths, the heroes, the tragedies. The moonlight howls through the night. It casts silver beams of light through the village streets, shining down from somewhere over the rooftops; it lights up the road, casting tall shadows through the alleyways, ghostly figures dancing on the walls of the theatre. The moonlight comes down; its limelight glances on a set of footprints deep in the snow.

Bertholdt follows them.

He walks ankle deep in the snow. He follows through side streets, holding close to the walls, in the darkness, the shadows. Each steep, each boot, one, two. He trails the tracks down their frantic path— an escape into the night, stumbling , weaving through the meandering village streets, searching for somewhere to run, somewhere to hide. Somewhere to disappear, somehow.

He circles. He comes to the village square, empty, quiet. Paper lanterns rustle in the wind as he passes the trails of the festival past, the people who were there, the night that came before. The drinks, the sweets, the rabbits’ feet. The hand of a hanged man under the lantern light. He follows, fingers cold, feet moving on. The night, still, but not quiet. It echoes. Hollow winds whistle over the village as his path comes to an end at the edge of town, the limit, the border, where the street falls out from beneath his feet and there in the distance, looming over the land like the end of the world, Wall Rose, the warning, its silver sheen shining like a siren beneath the blue moon of midwinter, finally showing its face on the longest night of the year.

Bertholdt’s boots tread to a stop.

At the end of the road, a lone figure sits in the snow, his head bent, his arms held close to his chest. The moonlight seeps over him in deep, blue shadows.

Bertholdt breathes: out, in. His tongue fails; his words crystallize in the air, a crinkling white cloud creeping away in the darkness. Away, away.

He stands there. Beneath the moon, he waits— quiet, cold, blue. In stillness, he waits, too afraid to move. The wind does not wait with him; it rushes down the village streets and bursts over the hillside like ice water on his skin. Something twists inside of him. A pinch, a pain, a knot in his stomach. Tightness in his chest, his throat. Heat, cold. Friction and fingers like frost. A burning, an aching. An inch forward in his boots that he cannot seem to move. His breath hanging in the air as he hesitates— waits— fails.

Wind wreaks over the end of the road and tousles blond hair in the darkness. A chill, stirring. A slight raise of the head, finally realizing that someone is there. 

"What?" Bertholdt hears him ask— mumbling, numb, indifferent to the night, the cold.

Bertholdt counts his breaths. One, and again. In and out. The wind, the moon, blowing over again before he can find his words.

“It’s the second act,” he finally says. His words fog in the air and disappear. “It’s starting now. You’re on soon.”

The wind again— winding through, a slow breeze scraping like black ice across his skin. An inching step forward. His boots crunch in the snow.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt says softly. “Come on. They’re waiting for you.”

He sits with his back to Bertholdt. His arms wrap closely around his knees, his chest, and his head stays turned down, bent crooked over his body where he sits in the snow, his gaze falling over the snow and the fields. And his footprints, trailing back to Bertholdt, mark an uneven path in the deep snow, stumbling, falling. He says nothing. 

“Reiner, come on,” Bertholdt says, again, louder. His voice burns. “Your act is up soon. This is what you’ve been waiting for.”

He mumbles as he folds in on himself: forehead dropping to his knees.

Bertholdt treads forward, to the side; his boots stray from the tracks and plunge into untouched snow. “What?”

_“I can’t do it.”_

“What?” Closer. “I can’t hear you.”

“I can’t do it,” Reiner mumbles.

Bertholdt stops, only steps away. “Of course you can. You know the part.” 

Silence, still. He takes another careful breath.

"You've been rehearsing," he continues. "You can do it. Come on, let's go back in."

Another mumble, as Reiner sits in the snow, his head dropped, contorted, his shoulders stretched as he hugs his knees to his chest and mutters again.

Bertholdt takes another step. “You can do it, Reiner. You know it all.”

“No,” comes the murmur. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Bertholdt echoes, his words on the wind. “You’ve worked really hard on this show. You can do it. Come on, they’re waiting.”

“No,” and the murmur comes harder, a whine, a cry. “I can’t.”

He shifts; arms tucked in, hands to his face.

“I can’t do it,” he whispers, a voice barely heard over the wind. “I can’t go out there. I don’t want to do it. I can’t do it.”

Bertholdt breathes: the tightness in his chest, onetwo, his heartbeat frantic in his wrist, his neck, his throat clenching, with the cold, the wind, the heat, the night. He stops: dead in the snow, frozen— unable to move or unwilling, but frozen where he stands, hearing his heartbeat drum a funeral march in his ears. 

“Okay,” he says softly, gently into the darkness, to placate. “Okay, it- it’s fine, Reiner. It’s just a show, okay? It doesn’t really matter. If you don’t want to— fine, but just come inside, please.”

His breath in the air: fading, disappearing, unseen, unheard.

“Please,” Bertholdt asks him. “Come inside, Reiner. You’ll freeze out here. Just come back with me.”

“I can’t do this,” he moans.

He shakes— his back bent over his body, sitting deep in the snow, shivering in the silver hero’s vest that stretches too thin over his shoulders as he closes in on himself, as his hair falls out of place, falling, shaking, as he weeps, as he shudders into his hands and cries, as the moon glares over them in its violent streaks of light. He cries. He sits trembling in the snow and he cries, and the sight tightens the coils around Bertholdt’s throat, the chains of exhaustion weighing him down, heavier, heavier, with every heave of Reiner’s shoulders as he sits at Bertholdt’s feet and cries, again, _again._

The knot tightens. The coils, burning. He speaks through the thorns in his throat, pleading into the night, again, _again._

"Please," he murmurs. His voice breaks on every word. “Reiner, please, just come inside.”

Into his hands, Reiner sobs: “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Please,” Bertholdt begs. “Please, Reiner.”

The night rages on— the wind, slashing through the streets, like ice, again, the cold at his fingertips, and the burning inside of him, again. The dread, the fear. The rising bile in his stomach because he is beginning to understand what the winter has done to them: the town, the land; the wall, the horizon, the blue moon; the island, the three of them; the end.

“Please,” comes the echo on Bertholdt’s tongue: a futile pleading whisper. “Let’s go inside.” 

Reiner breaks open. He gasps, a sob as he heaves, lifting his head for the first time, only to shudder and cry and drop down again. He falls forward, onto his knees, his elbows, his bare hands clenching into fists, buried in the snow. A ragged, animal sob escapes from him; he bellows, cries. Bent in two, he closes his eyes and sobs to the night.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he cries.

“Please,” Bertholdt whispers. “Reiner.”

He fumbles upright, unsteadily back on his haunches; his head lifted, his shoulders shuddering as the sobs heave their way out of him, even as his tears dry, even as he turns his face to the midnight sky and stares— his body wracks, cries, and he coughs it out, breaking out loud.

“These people,” he moans: breaths hard, violent, forcing their way out. Thoughts coming, words too, ferociously fighting into the air. His voice cracks, cries. “This place. I can’t do this, Bertholdt.”

He cries, moaning like a wounded animal.

“Where are we, Bertholdt?” he sobs. “What are we doing here?”

Fire, like ice, when the tears slip down Bertholdt’s face. He stands over Reiner, his boots in the snow; his feet like stone, motionless, anchored, his body still as the pain twists inside of him, the dread tying its knot in his stomach and pulling so tight he feels as if each breath could be his last.

“You know,” he whispers, begs. Stuck, standing still. “You remember.”

“I can’t,” Reiner cries, until his breaths slow and Bertholdt watches, his face turning up to the moon, as the tears cease and their tracks shine on his face.

“Some days,” he says, “I just—…”

He trails off, his voice low and clear, his face turned to the moon as if the words will be there in front of him, to touch with an outstretched hand, to take and swallow and finally understand. Silence, as the moon looks back, as the emptiness comes over him.

“Some days,” he repeats, cold and hollow. “I just can’t remember. I wake up and—… I see you and I— I don’t think I know who you are. Sometimes, I don’t think I know my own name. Sometimes you look at me and I— I don’t know what you’re looking for, but you don’t find it. It’s not there anymore. I’m not…”

Reiner stares over the fields. “What are we doing here, Bertholdt?”

Bertholdt breathes: “We’re warriors, Reiner. You know that.”

“I know,” he answers numbly. “But sometimes…”

He stops. He sits back on his heels, slowly, moving as if each joint in his body aches. He stares over the valley, the snow, the moonlight, his form unsteady, unbalanced, as his gaze falls out of focus, dizzy, wavering, with tears welling up again, streaming down his cheeks, and the thought of sometimes becoming all too much, all again, _again._

"Sometimes," he whispers, until another sob chokes him and he folds over, wracked, gasping for air, his bare hands clawing at the snow. 

"I want it to end," he sobs. "I want to go home."

Bertholdt’s breath comes to him dizzily, stirring up from his lungs, a forceful circuit of air that shudders within him and stirs something deep. Something unsettling in the pit of his stomach, in the prickly rope wrapping itself around his neck. Something that is called to howl beneath the moonlight, like a dog. Like a fearful, angry beast.

He tries to speak. He gasps. Words coming up short. Breath clenched in his throat. Heart pounding, chest straining. For air, for words. He feels the tears after they have already fallen, slipping from behind his eyes without his will, and it all comes to the surface at once, the shock, the fear, the dread, the knot in his stomach, clenching in his fist and spewing out of his mouth.

"You don't get to go home," he says.

Wind rustles swiftly down the village streets. It sweeps over the hinges of a creaking sign, kicks up a flurry of snow, sends a stray cat pummeling for safety down an alleyway. The cold rushes over the end of the street, as Reiner’s crying stops short and he turns, for the first time, to raise his head and look at Bertholdt with wide eyes like silver dollars. Bertholdt, who no longer feels the chill of the wind.

“You don’t get to go home,” Bertholdt says again, to Reiner, to himself. His voice steels— his jaw, tightening. His vision creeping in and out as the tears blur in his eyes, the moonlight. “You don’t get to go home!"

The tears slip past his eyes, the dam broken, and at once, in the blue winter moonlight, he finds Reiner staring up at him: crouched on his knees in the snow, with his hair mussed, his face red, his fingers trembling, and his eyes, wide, terrified, blinking up at Bertholdt. His lips sit halfway open; he is bleeding, ugly and bruised from teeth clenched too hard. The blood seethes through Bertholdt; the steam. On another night, he would have kissed that blood away. He would have wiped away Reiner's tears and held him. Loved him.

Reiner’s lips part. He starts to speak— _“Bertholdt”_ _—_ but Bertholdt does not let him finish.

“None of us get to go home,” Bertholdt shouts. He chokes on every word: brow furrowed, tears in the craters of his eyes. "Do you think we want to be here? Do you think we’ve been having fun playing soldier while you try to get us killed?”

He looms over Reiner, knees in the snow. He’s shouting, he knows he is, his words echoing on the cold empty horizon like sound waves on the rim of a glass bottle, ringing in an unpredictable rhythm, over and over, again, _again._ Beneath him, Reiner watches, red eyes wide, tears frozen on his face. Silent.

“You don’t think Annie wants to go home?” Bertholdt shouts, the heat rising in his chest, his fist. “To her dad? That’s all she wants! That’s all she’s ever wanted. And me, to my—“

Hot in his throat. Burning as he fumbles, the words wailing short of a sentence and forcing themselves out as sobs. His skin burns as the tears pour. Like fire, like ice. He throws a hand over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that he hopes it will take him away.

He hears Reiner shuffle in the snow. His fingers touch Bertholdt’s other hand— _like ice._

“We can go home together,” Reiner whispers with the wind. “All of us together—“

“No, we can’t,” Bertholdt cries. He sees stars. He tastes salt. “We can’t! Not until we’ve carried out our mission! Not until we’ve finished what we’ve started!”

Reiner's hand falls away from his. 

Bertholdt blinks through the tears, gasping, and he cries out, “You made that choice for us, Reiner. You brought us here. We’ve spent _years_ chasing _nothing_ and we can’t go home until we have something to show for it. Something that will save us and our families. That was your decision.”

He chokes: "Do you even remember?"

His words echo inside his head. Does he? Does Reiner know? What he’s done to them, where he’s brought them. The thought seeps deep inside of Bertholdt, sinking down behind his eyes, down into his stomach as he cries, catches his breath, the tears drying into streaks on his face that glimmer in the moonlight. The world sways before him— land of ice and snow, uneven as he blinks the salt away, as everything fades back into view and he suddenly finds he can’t bring himself to look at Reiner, the boy sitting on his knees at Bertholdt’s feet, the pain on his face, the hopelessness. Lost, somewhere in midwinter.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” Reiner whispers into the blue. “I didn’t know–“

“But this is how it is,” Bertholdt cuts in.

He blinks away his tears. He drops his gaze: to Reiner, kneeling in the snow. He meets Reiner’s eyes: the tender, faultless gaze of confusion.

Somewhere, a song begins. They hear it from down in the village streets: winding its way through the town, sweeping along with the wind until it reaches them, an excited, lilting dance number. The keys of the piano clang, a distant rhythmic drumming, and the fiddle sings, wailing into the air like a siren. The dance begins: rough footsteps on the stage, and the clap and holler of villagers in the audience who sing along. Over the cold valley, the music plays: a strange, disjointed harmony that needles into Bertholdt’s brain and pecks at him until it sounds like nothing but a whine, a drumming, an aching reminder of the rest of the night, of all the things they still must endure. The winter in its prime. The spring, too far away to see. And the music, the damn music—

“You wanted to be the hero,” Bertholdt mutters. He bears down on Reiner, lump held back in his throat to speak. The tears on his face burn away. “Well, you have your chance tonight.

“So stand up, Reiner,” he spits, “and go play the hero like you’ve always wanted.”

Reiner stares up at him. Silent, he watches with wide eyes, lips apart, still as if he is barely breathing. Another moment passes— the cold wind, the music. And Bertholdt can’t take it any longer.

He yells, “I said, stand up!”

His fist wrenches onto Reiner’s shirt collar. He tears Reiner off the ground, and they stumble, their boots skidding in the snow as they struggle. Something escapes Reiner when Bertholdt throws him onto his feet— a sudden whimpering. A plea for mercy.

Bertholdt lets go. A gasp wells up inside of him. His breath steams into the night. He frees his hand and falls back, clarity coming over him. When he flicks his eyes up, Reiner is still watching him. He stands haphazardly, wrinkles in his shirt from Bertholdt’s fist. His gaze wild, like an animal. Bertholdt’s lips part. His stomach sinks. He wants to say— beg, plead— but Reiner takes a step back. A silent stumble. His hands red from the ice, his eyes too. He stares at Bertholdt for a moment more; in the shadows of the moonlight, the fear wears off his face. His gaze falls flat: dark, empty. Then he turns and slips away, disappearing down the village streets.

The moon hangs over the village. It shines a silvery blue upon on the snow, but from where Bertholdt stands, shivering again in the shadows of the buildings on the outskirts of town, everything looks dark. A grey haze overtakes the street, the end of the cobblestones where they meet the dead grass beneath the snow. For a moment, he thinks the clouds have returned to shudder the moonlight away again. Then he falls, his knees plummeting onto the ground, and he finds that it’s him in the grey, his eyes too full of tears to see.

A sob rips through him. Silent, like the night; it tears up through his chest and floods the tears from his eyes, but even as he kneels on the end of the street and cries, he finds all breath taken from him. No air in his lungs, no words left on his tongue to cry out into the night. He gasps for air, but nothing comes. He folds over, hands digging into the snow and gravel. His palms strike rock and bleed into the white. He heaves. He cries. But there is nothing inside, nothing left to scream.

In the distance, the music stops.

His eyes flicker open; his gaze pointed at the ground, where the snow has melted between his hands and his palms are steaming. With two fumbling hands he wipes his face clean of tears, blots his cheeks with snow to ice away the tracks they left behind. If only Marley could see their great warriors now: heartless and weeping, bleeding into the snow and losing themselves. A failed experiment. A tragedy.

From across town, he hears the thunder of applause, rumbling up the snow-covered streets; the audience cheers, yelling and whistling and clapping their hands for the dancers onstage.

Bertholdt lifts his head— in the distance, the theatre, candlelit. He stands, shifting clumsily onto his feet; his boots scrape on the ice and his breaths are ragged as everything comes together in hindsight. The things he said. Words he never meant.

He follows the trail of Reiner’s footsteps through the quiet town, a straightforward path leading on in the shadow of the moon that glares over his shoulder, felling beams across his body. The path leads him back to the theatre, where the candles are lit and the laughter is loud. It is like a different world when Bertholdt slips in through the stage door; his head spins at the chaos, the sudden life backstage, the cast and crew working in measured silence with props and costumes and lighting rigs.

No one notices as he moves through. He tracks in snow on his boots, but if there is a protest, he does not hear. He treads wearily to the right wing of the stage. He catches his breath.

There— waiting in the wing, Reiner stands with his back to Bertholdt, his frame outlined by the light onstage as the dancers take their final bows. The audience cheers again, and Bertholdt pushes through the people and the props, desperate to reach him. He stumbles into the wing.

“Reiner,” he’ll say, the breath of a whisper. Their eyes will meet, and he’ll say, softly, tenderly, “I’m sorry.”

One hand outstretched.

The lights fall down. Bertholdt sucks in a breath. He blinks into the darkness. He reaches. But there is no one there.

A trick of mirrors, and a spotlight shines onto the stage. In the soft white glow stands Reiner. He waits, a beat of silence. Tension, for the audience. It is enough even without the words. They know the story they are about to be told; they recognize the costumes, the mood, the beloved heroine who takes the stage with him, her golden hair glowing in the spotlight. They settle into their seats with whispered smiles at the promise of this classic hero’s tale— a story of undying love.

From the wing, Bertholdt watches as Reiner takes a breath— another beat, a breath of silence— as he turns to face his ingenue, a strange tension high in his shoulders— as the audience leans— as he speaks:

"And so it seems again, I am alone.  
A solemn man, a lonesome wanderer.  
The road beneath my feet abandoned once  
again, no lover by my side tonight.  
My light, my star, the one who holds my heart  
between her gentle hands, now gone again.  
Perhaps I should have known, when even sun  
light casts a glare so cold and dim. O'erhead  
the stars now hide behind the heavens and  
the rivers run without their babbling song.  
It seems the world can't carry on without   
her near; nor I, a fool in love! Am I  
to walk this road alone? To follow where  
my lover leads, the solemn trail behind?  
As if the moon, the sun! The night that seeks  
the day, that follows her forevermore.   
I ask my heart, and yet the answer lies  
upon the road ahead. A lonely road,  
a path where unknown peril waits for me.  
But still the only way for me to go.  
So let the peril meet me on the road!   
And be it mountains, ten thousand feet tall!  
And be it thunder, raging in the sky!  
And be it walls! Maria, Rose, Sina!  
No natural feat will move me from my path.  
No act of god will keep me from my love!  
There is no other way that I will go!   
But for the road that brings me home to you."

Silence rings over the theatre. The candles flicker in the cold winter night. Then— applause.

The villagers are on their feet, their hands in the air. Hardly one of them bothers to wipe the tears from their eyes. It is a story they have heard before, a verse they will hear again, but it stirs the whole town, until they are all out of their seats and shouting over the applause. 

Reiner lifts his head; he kneels on the stage floor, one of Christa's hands in his, and he turns his gaze slowly to the audience, the applause. He takes it in. Then he leaps to his feet, swinging Christa upright with him. He stands, both hands raised above his head, with his back to the wing as they take their bows hand-in-hand, one, two, as the audience cheers.

Bertholdt cannot see his face, only his form, a silhouette beneath the spotlight. But he can imagine— that bright, heroic smile. 


	11. xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A whiskey, please, my dear boy, and make it strong. It's been a long night!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so it seems again, i am writing a final author's note. it's bittersweet to see this fic come to an end, but i am really proud of the work i put into it and i know i will look back fondly on it. thank you to everyone who has read this story, taken the time to write comments, and shared this fic on social media. it means a lot to me. 
> 
> if you want to ride out the end of the manga together, you can find me on [tumblr](https://ackermom.tumblr.com/). i'm not very active, but i'm always open to talking about these ill-fated boys. i hope we get to see them together again before the story ends. with that in mind...
> 
> please enjoy.

The smoke prickles Bertholdt's eyes when he steps into the tavern. Already, the party is well underway— a gathering of all the cast and crew, and some of the audience too, packed together into one small bar on the corner of the village square, open late into the night for the celebrations: of the show, of the winter, of the turning point of the year. Outside the snow has begun to fall again, the cold-faced moon retreating back behind the clouds; three old men sit on the stoop of the tavern, warming themselves with pints, beer dripping in their beards as they laugh together, telling stories of nights like these that they remember: nights when they were young, when they could drink and dance 'til morning and still wake up in time to haul their bodies to the fields for work. Simpler times, they reminiscence, crooning to each other as Bertholdt passes them on his way inside. Oh, times are always simpler in hindsight. 

He coughs. The tavern door clatters shut behind him, its bell jingling with the music; and save the snow flurries that rush inside, no one notices him enter. They are crowded wall to wall, passing pints of beer and bottles of whiskey, packed elbow to elbow amid the crowd, while someone strums a tune, the fiddle player from the show, and a giggling mob of young villagers dance arm-in-arm, trading partners as they swing across the floor, their boots tapping in an unsteady rhythm on the ground, their voices raised above the sound to chant along with the song. No semblance of order as the solstice nears its end, just the townspeople passing pipes with the cadets, who Bertholdt can hardly pick out of the crowd anymore, who will surely get hell when word of their behavior reaches Shadis tomorrow, who sit at the bar, dance with the villagers, lock arms and hold hands with the new friends of midwinter. He squints, trying to take it all in. He coughs again, into his hand, as an old woman by the door lets out a ring of smoke and offers him her pipe. 

"No, thanks," Bertholdt mutters. He pushes forward into the crowd.

His eyes still feel raw and red; the smoke stings him, makes him squint his eyes as he searches the crowd, pushing through, a head above most other people, and turns his gaze over the tavern. He finds the cadets, slowly, coming in pairs and trios; first, Sasha and Connie, out on the dance floor, laughing and shouting as they jig with the villagers; there is Armin, in the corner, sucking down his pint as he stands between Jean and Eren, who've both had more than they can handle; Mikasa, not far behind, brushing off the hand of a man who asks her to dance; Marco, in deep conversation with a pair of townsfolk, and Christa and Ymir leaning on the wall opposite him, giggling into the glass of whiskey they share. 

He presses on, squeezing through the last line of tightly packed shoulders to find Reiner standing at the bar; in his hand, a pint with beer foam drying on the lip. 

Bertholdt's heart does a hiccup. He reaches out, one timid hand, then pulls it back. 

"Reiner," he says, as softly as he can to still be heard in the loud tavern, with the lights dim and the beer flowing as the fiddle strings madly on the dance floor. He can't bring himself to touch Reiner, not after that, not after what he said. "Reiner, I'm—"

"Oh, Bert!" Reiner exclaims.

He yells, ecstatic, eyes warm, smile wide, the mug in his hand already half-empty. It swings in his hand when he throws an arm around Bertholdt's shoulders to drag him towards the crowd at the bar. Drops of beer splatter onto Bertholdt's shoulder. 

"Where've you been?" Reiner asks, grinning up at him. He turns his head. "Ladies, have you met my friend?" 

He gestures to the two middle-aged women standing across from him at the bar, who are nearly falling over each other with giggles when he smiles at them; all three of them, their faces flushed and pink, in the heat, with the drink. Somewhere across the crowded room, another bottle pops and the people shout. Bertholdt meets their smiles with a grimace, all he can manage to do as he tries to wriggle out of Reiner's crushing headlock; his pint is held haphazardly in his hand and a slow waterfall of beer foam is plopping onto Bertholdt's boots. 

"Hi," Bertholdt says politely. "Reiner—"

"Goodness!" one of the women exclaims, holding a hand over her heart. She smiles up at them, frazzled. "Where do they find trainees these days?" 

"We're from up north," Reiner tells her. "Very hardy stock." 

"Reiner—"

"Oh my!" she exclaims, the curls of her bun shaking as she laughs. She elbows her friend. "When we were young, I swear those trainee boys looked like children! Didn't they, Teresa? Stop laughing! They used to have to tie their britches up with twine— but these days— well, I ought to sign up for the army myself! If they'd have me! I'm sure I'm far too old by now."

"Of course not," Reiner says, still smiling. "The upper age limit's only something like twenty-eight. You two look well under that!"

She bursts into laughter, a hand clutched over her heart. "Oh, we have to get out of here, Teresa! Stop me before I run away with one of these strapping young soldiers. I'm old enough to be your mother, young man!"

"Reiner," Bertholdt repeats, softer, near to his ear. Anxiety rushes through him as Reiner's arm adjusts on his shoulders, fingers falling lazily to brush over his collarbone. "Can I talk to you, please?"

"Sure," Reiner chirps at him. "What is it? Oh, do you want a drink? Let me get you one!"

Bertholdt blinks. "No, not that— not here. Can we—"

"Oh, hold on, wait a second, Bert," he exclaims suddenly, popping upright from where he leans on the bar.

His arm slips away from Bertholdt's shoulders, his hand disappearing without another touch, and he stares into the crowd in the dim tavern, watching for someone as the giggling women slip away, shaking their heads. Two more villagers instantly take their place, slinging empty pints along the bar top; through the crowd, the director appears before them, his cane stomping on the wooden floor as he hobbles towards the bartender, his half-moon glasses slipping down the nose. He huffs as he ambulates to a stop; Reiner steps back to give him room to breathe, trodding on Bertholdt's toes as he does. Bertholdt shuffles aside, a lump rising in his throat. 

"Oh, boys," the director wheezes when he sees them. He coughs, lifting one finger to gesture. "Fetch the barman for me, will you? Goodness, it's warm in here tonight! Though I suppose that is to be expected with such a crowd! I must say, what a remarkable show it was with the help of you and your fellow cadets. Without your assistance, I do believe we would have lacked the heavy lifting abilities to orchestrate such a splendid performance." 

He nods to the barman. "A whiskey, please, my dear boy, and make it strong. It's been a long night!" 

"And fetch a pint for this young man," he adds when he glances back to them. He squints at Bertholdt. "Goodness, cadet, we have been working alongside one another for several weeks and yet I am afraid I cannot recall your name!" 

"Oh, no," Bertholdt tries to protest, though whether against the drink or his name, he does not know. "That's not really—"

"It's a party!" Reiner exclaims, shoving an elbow into Bertholdt's ribs. "You could stand to have a drink or two!" 

The fiddle song strums to a wicked end, and the tavern erupts into a cheer. It sends a shiver down Bertholdt's spine; he glances around, suddenly feeling dizzy, unsteady, as he stands rooted to the floor of the bar and the rest of the room seems to twist around him, the people singing and laughing as the walls close in around them. He stares into the crowd. Beneath the low candlelight, the sweaty faces of the dancers are hard to make out as they clap the fiddle player out from his song, as they meddle among the crowd and finish their drinks. He feels the pint that Reiner shoves into his hands, but he hardly stirs at the touch, the trickle of cold beer running down the side of the pewter mug in his hands, nor as the director continues to ramble at them, sipping his whiskey and dabbing his brow free of seat.

Only when the tavern door opens again does Bertholdt start. The cold wind of winter rushes in, sweeping over him like water. He sucks in a breath— then the door slams, and at once, the room feels steady again, as he blinks and turns back to the conversation at hand.

"Yes, well, a little different from what we rehearsed," the director is saying to Reiner, peering at him over the rim of his glasses. "It was supposed to be a love story, soldier, not a eulogy! But it's the thought that counts, I suppose, and we all know what is said about best-laid plans. Either way, well done! Bravo, as we say in the theatre!"

He raises his glass of whiskey; then something catches his eye and he smiles over their shoulders.

"Ah, there you are!" the director exclaims. "I noticed you in the audience earlier and was wondering if we'd encounter one another tonight! I was just giving some notes to your cadet— one of the top two, if I'm not mistaken— on his performance tonight. Did you catch the second act, Keith?" 

"I did," comes Shadis' answers as he appears before them at the bar. He stares down at both Reiner and Bertholdt, who has to blink a few times before recognizing his commanding officer— in civilian attire with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Reiner gapes. Bertholdt finds his gaze drawn to the crowd behind Shadis, where two of their comrades have just emerged and now stand frozen in the shadows, safely out of sight: a surprised Marco, bearing a tray of empty pints from the cadets, and a mortified Jean standing just behind him, his eyes with fear as he processes what he is seeing. 

Shadis' brow furrows as his gaze pierces them. "What a show. Maybe you aren't all doomed to choke yourselves by putting your 3DMG harness on backwards." 

"Oh, come now, you can't be too hard on them," the director exclaims merrily as he— to the awe and horror of every cadet within range— gives Shadis a friendly pat on the back. "They've been working very hard these last few weeks! You know, boys, if I was your commanding officer, I would give you the rest of the weekend off as compensation for trudging back and forth from town in this miserable winter weather! Then again there is a reason I never dared to join the military myself! I wouldn't last one minute, I'm afraid!"

"He was here?!" Jean hisses in Marco's ear, still rooted to the same spot. "He saw me get up on stage and _sing?"_

"Ah, boys!" the director exclaims when he sees them. "I was just about to commend you to your commanding officer! Marvelous musicians, these two— well, you saw! Say, Keith, I believe the Cadet Corps might yet be an untapped well of talent. Perhaps you might make it an annual tradition to allow them to partake in the show! There is such a tradition in the Survey Corps, is there not?" 

_"Keith?"_ Jean mouths incredulously. 

"Commander," Marco exclaims, as the crowd swells and he is shuffled unwillingly forward, clutching the wobbling tray of empty mugs in his hands. "We, ah, didn't know you were going to be here tonight. What a surprise!" 

"I always find time for the Solstice Festival," Shadis says shortly without so much as looking at him. "For community relations, of course."

"Of course," Marco echoes, blinking. 

"Come now," the director proclaims. He raises his glass and beckons for Shadis to follow him. "We'll leave you, cadets, to enjoy your night of freedom. I hear it may be the last one you have all term!" 

He hobbles off, heaving himself and his cane with every step as he disappears into the crowd of the darkened tavern; Shadis, towering above them, moves to follow, but he has only taken one step from the bar, and the boys barely opened their mouth to ask each other what the hell they just witnessed, when he turns over his shoulder and gives them his infamous glare, his brow furrowed like that of a hawk.

"Kirschstein," he barks, and Jean swears, leaping to attention. Shadis squints at him. "You were a little flat on the last verse." 

He turns away, fading into the smoky haze of the tavern; Jean stays where he stands, stone-faced with his mouth hanging open, as Marco chokes back laughter and slides the tray of empty glasses to the bartender with tears in his eyes. Reiner guffaws. 

Jean whips around, glaring at him. "We are _never_ going to talk about this again."

"No, of course not," Marco wheezes. He raises a weak hand to the bartender. "Another round, please, and—"

"Are you kidding?" Reiner exclaims, barking laughter into Jean's face. "This is the only thing we're _ever_ going to talk about again! Connie's never gonna let you live this down, wait 'til I tell him."

"No, don't you dare!" Jean hisses, lunging after Reiner as he stumbles off into the crowd. "Hey, get back here!" 

"Wait, Reiner," Bertholdt repeats, reaching out a hand. But he speaks too softly amid the music and the laughter, as another song picks up somewhere across the room, and Reiner disappears into the haze, Jean running after him. Bertholdt thinks, he should just leave, he should go back to the compound and wait for Annie to return from her reconnaissance; there is no point standing here in the dark, red-faced and meek, swallowing mouthfuls of smoke, waiting for Reiner to turn around and face him so Bertholdt can apologize for something that he does not even seem to remember. 

He drops his hand. The mirage of people blurs before him, and he turns back to the bar, the untouched pint still heavy in his hand. Next to him, Marco tips the bartender with a haphazard purse of coins pooled together by the cadets, and as he waits for the next round to be served, he glances across to Bertholdt. 

"How'd you like the show?" he asks, tipping his head to the side.

Bertholdt blinks at him. "Oh, fine, I guess. We'd already seen it all."

Marco hums. "But there is something about it when it all comes together, isn't there? It felt different tonight, having the audience and seeing everyone really put their best effort into the show. It made all the hard work worth it." 

He stands with his arms folded at the elbow, splayed across the bar, and his fingers drum against the beer-stained wood as his gaze goes glossy and he stares ahead. "There is something to be said for a simple life like this, I think. Living in the country, working the fields. Nights like these, at a place like this. A quiet town where everyone knows your name."

He trails off, saying nothing else for a moment, before he seems to come back to himself, and he shakes his head, smiling before he looks up at Bertholdt again. "Oh, well. I've already chosen my path. I guess I'll have to leave behind any daydreams about being a farmer." 

"Oh," Bertholdt says. "But you could always change your mind, I suppose."

"I suppose," Marco says with a shrug. "But— no, I've worked too hard to get here."

He grins at Bertholdt. "Top ten! Can you believe it? We'll be in the interior before we know it, and this'll all be worth it then!"

Bertholdt turns back to his pint and echoes, "This will all be worth it then."

In the dim candlelight, he can hardly see his reflection in the beer, only a murky haze of someone who might look like him. He swills the glass, watching himself in the amber liquid as the foam on the edges pops and crackles away. Then he titles his head back and takes a long drink. When he swallows, he finds that someone has squeezed up to the bar at the seat next to him— the man with the rope, Frederick, the one who Bertholdt now realizes he entirely abandoned for the second act of the show to run the lights by himself. He wipes the foam from his lips and opens his mouth to apologize, but Frederick beats him to it.

"Someone took a beer from my stash in the catwalks," he says in his low, gruff voice. He glances up at Bertholdt without hardly moving his head, one eyebrow raised. "I only noticed tonight. Any ideas who it could have been?"

Bertholdt feels his face grow hot. "Oh..."

A small smile appears between his bushy mustache and beard. He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, kid. Clever, taking one from the back. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"I can pay for it," Bertholdt says quickly, but Frederick shakes his head. 

"No," he mutters, and he raises one finger to the bartender, who seems to understand. "It's on me. So's your next. You look like you could use another drink."

"I missed half the show," Bertholdt exclaims, his brow furrowed. "The entire second act."

Still, he only shakes his head and smiles. "It's just a show, kid. We carried on. The people round here, that's the only thing we know how to do." 

He gives Bertholdt a solemn nod as he turns to leave with his refilled glass of whiskey. Something passes through his eyes; he stands still for another moment, their eyes meeting. Then he adds in a low voice, "Stay safe out there," before shuffling off into the crowd. 

"Um, Bertholdt," comes Marco's strained voice a second later, and Bertholdt blinks around to find him with a pint-laden tray balanced halfway between the bar and his arms, the overflowing pewter mugs wobbling and sending cascades of pale amber foam down the sides. He glances up with an uneasy smile. "Would you mind— it's a little heavy—"

"Oh, no, of course not," he exclaims. "Where are we—"

They slip through the crowd, the tray heaved over the heads of the villagers as they traverse across the dark tavern. A joyful cry goes up when the drinks arrive on the other side of the room, where the rest of the cadets have gathered, commandeering one corner table and spilling onto the surrounding chairs that circle the dance floor. The pints are snatched up as quickly as they are set down on the table, leaving little behind but a sticky stain of foam that Bertholdt attempts to wipe from his hands; he only succeeds in knocking over his own drink, which he barely salvages by catching before it falls off the edge of the table. The cadets settle back into tipsy conversations and card games. A slower sung is strummed out by a guitarist at the back wall, who serenades the tavern alongside the fiddler, playing a sweet melody that entices the townspeople onto the floor, where they glide in a slow dance, hand-in-hand. 

The cadets crowd around their table, and Bertholdt finds himself squeezed into the back of the booth with Reiner on one side and Mina on the other, his elbows knocking together as he sits back and listens, the rest of the tavern falling into a dull silence around him. He watches Reiner. He is himself again, or rather, not. He plays a quick card game with Connie and Jean, and he laughs, tells jokes, keeps drinking as the night carries on. When his knee touches Bertholdt's underneath the table, Bertholdt stirs for a moment, the pace of his heart picking up before Reiner pulls away, leaning over the table with his shoulder to Bertholdt as he snatches the cards away from Jean and Connie, who are arguing about the rules. 

Bertholdt swirls the last of his beer; it looks like dishwater under the lantern light. He downs the rest of it.

"I asked her if she wanted to," Mina is exclaiming from his other side. She sits squished into the booth with her back to him as she meticulously unravels the elaborate braids in her dark hair, leaving tight waves of locks behind. "But she said no! I wish she'd danced with us tonight. With moves like that on the sparring ground, she has to have some rhythm, don't you think?"

"It would've been nice to have a sixth," one of the other girls says, pink in the face. She hiccups and a hand flies to cover her mouth. "Oops!" 

Mina glances over her shoulder suddenly, and her eyes light up when she sees it is Bertholdt sitting there. 

"Bertholdt," she exclaims loudly, turning around to slap him on the arm; he thinks she means to grab him, but the beer is flowing heavily tonight and the cadets don't get many chances to drink. Some of them are going to be dragged back to the compound. 

"Don't you think she should have danced with us?" she asks him. One braid still hangs over her shoulder, the other half of her hair hanging in tightly wound waves. 

He glances at them, pushing his empty pint onto the table. "Sorry, what?"

"Annie," Mina exclaims, as if he was supposed to know. "We invited her to dance with us tonight, but she said no! She would've rather worked backstage. I haven't seen her here, you know, do you think she went back already?"

"Maybe," Bertholdt says. "Um—"

"Oh, I'm going feel awful if she felt left out," Mina mutters, her shoulders sagging. "She said she wasn't a good dancer, but I don't know if I believe that. Do you think she just had stage fright?" 

Reiner laughs suddenly, and Bertholdt glances up to find that he's turned back in his seat to face them, the card game finished or abandoned. He sits back, one leg propped up over the other, and he holds his pint in one hand as he talks, gesticulating loudly like he does when he's had too much to drink. 

"You think Annie had stage fright?" he laughs. _"Annie?"_

Mina frowns. "It can happen to anyone! I've danced a lot in front of people and even I got a little nervous tonight."

"I don't think Annie was nervous about getting up onstage," Reiner says. He accidentally nudges Bertholdt with his knee, again. "I think she just didn't want to dance with you." 

Bertholdt glances at him. "Well—"

"Hey," he says, cutting off any other protests, and he leans over, again wrapping his arm around Bertholdt's shoulders and pulling him into something more like a headlock than a hug, squeezing him so tightly that Bertholdt winces and tries to push him away. "You should've seen Bertholdt's face at the auditions when she got up there and whittled that piece of wood. You know, because—"

"Reiner."

"—she's good with her hands, you know—"

"Stop it," Bertholdt exclaims. He breaks away, pulling himself out from under Reiner's arm; for that his hair gets mussed, and when he sits back trying to flatten it, he finds Reiner grinning wickedly at him, a devilish smirk splitting across his face.

"Oh," he says. "I _knew_ it." 

The girls sputter into tipsy laughter. Mina giggles, throwing a hand over her mouth to hide as she gives Bertholdt an apologetic look before turning back to the others with a blush rising on her face. Bertholdt opens his mouth, furrows his brow at Reiner, but the slow song ends abruptly and the waltzing couples have barely had a chance to leave the dance floor before another jig breaks out, one that strums at a lightning pace with fiddle and guitar. The frenzied music sends a crowd galloping onto the dance floor, and the cadets are too drunk, having too much fun, to be very bothered when they're flattened against a wall to make room for the boisterous and complicated dance that lights up the tavern.

Heat rises in the room as the dancers whirl their way around the floor. The smoke lingers in the air, a grey haze that lifts above the crowd and begins to clear as the jig becomes the center of attention, with everyone's eyes turned towards the dancers; they clap in time to the beat of the music, and others join the fray, the girls' dance troupe springing to their feet to find partners, Sasha and Connie and others from Wall Rose leaping into the midst to dance with the villagers as the music continues to play, singing deep into the late night as the snow continues to fall outside. 

It comes to an end suddenly— the fiddler tears off the last note of the song, the horse hair of his bow fraying and falling to the floor of the tavern as the crowd erupts into a roar. Villagers stumble back to their seats to gulp down a mouthful of beer, wiping sweat from their brows; and someone takes to the center of their room, raising a pint high above their head. 

"Cheers!" the cadet yells above the crowd. "Cheers to the 104th! Everybody raise your glass!" 

A holler ripples through the crowd of the cadets, and some of the villagers too, who raise their drinks in solidarity as the cadets stumble onto the dance floor and crowd together into a circle, throwing their arms around each other to sway in time with the music that picks up again, the fiddler stomping his foot in time to get a beat. One, two. 

"Everybody," someone shouts. "Everybody, raise your drinks!" 

Bertholdt finds himself pulled onto his feet and thrust onto the floor with the rest of the 104th Cadet Corps: twenty-four soldiers in the center of the tavern, packed together in a circle with their arms around each other, beer in their veins and the high of the midwinter solstice in their heads, sending them soaring above the town and the snow-covered fields. Across the circle, Connie ducks out to wave at someone.

"Timo, Timo," he calls. He throws an arm around Timo's shoulders to pull him into the circle. "Honorary 104th!"

"Honorary 104th," comes the echoed call, tipsy and giggling the cadets raise their glasses once more. 

The crowd cheers— cadets and villagers alike. The fiddle plays on, soon accompanied by the guitar again, the music picking up as the circle sways in heated rhythm; they move steadily, leaning on each other, holding each other up as the alcohol hits their brains and they find themselves unable to stand still from laughing too hard. Bertholdt tries to catch his breath amid the noise. He blinks. Across the circle, he sees Reiner, squeezed between Jean and Eren with his arms around their shoulders. He grins widely, brightly, the light of the candles shining warmly in his hair. His gaze flicks across the circle until he comes to meet Bertholdt's eyes. For a moment, he freezes. Something unspoken crosses over him. Bertholdt holds his breath.

Then Reiner grins even wider, squeezing his friends close. The violin hums a beloved tune, and someone calls for a singer— "The soprano! Encore, encore!"— until Christa appears from the crowd, her hair still draped in dramatic curls over her shoulder. She takes up the melody with some hesitance, pink in the face as her pleasant, lilting voice carries through the tavern; whether she blushes from the heat, or the beer, or from the eyes laid on her as she sings in the center of the circle, Bertholdt does not know. But only a moment later, Reiner is there. He breaks from the circle to step into the spotlight with her, and the uncertainty disappears from Christa's face as someone more willing takes the attention. The cadets sway in time, humming along to the music. Christa's song carries over the room— a song of spring, of new beginnings— and Reiner takes her hand, the golden light from the lanterns encircling them as they begin to dance.


End file.
